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THE 

WO  MAN'S    STORY 


AS  TOLD  BY 


TWENTY  AMERICAN  WOMEN 


PORTRAITS,  AND  SKETCHES  OF  THE  AUTHORS 

BY 

LAURA  C.  HOLLOWAY 

Author  of  "  The  Ladies  of  the  IVTiite  House,"    "An  Hour  with 

Charlotte  Bronte ,"  "  Adelaide  Nvilson"  "The   Hiailh- 

stone,"  "Mothers  of  Great  Men    and   Women," 

"Howard,   the    Christian   Hero,"     "The 

Home  in  Poetry,"  etc. 


NEW  YORK 
JOHN  B.  ALDEN,  PUBLISHER 

1889 


Copyright,  1888, 

BT 

LAURA  C.  HOLLOW  AY,, 


607 


CONTENTS. 


Preface v 

Harriet  Beecher  Stowe     Portrait  and  Biographical  Sketcli  ix 
Uncle  Lot.     By  Harriet  Beecher  Stowe 1 

^Harriet  Prescott  Spofford.     Portrait  and  Biographical 

Sketch 33 

Old  Madame.     By  Harriet  Prescott  Spofford 37 

Rebecca    Harding    Davis.    Biographical  Sketch 69 

Tirar  y  Soult.     By  Rebecca  Harding  Davis 73 

Edna  Dean  Proctor.     Portrait  and  Biographical  Sketcli.  97 

Tom  Foster's  Wife.    By  Edna  Dean  Proctor 99 

Marietta  Holley.     Portrait  and  Biographical  Sketcli. .    .113 
Fourth  of  July  in  Jonesville.     By  Marietta  Holley. . . .  115 

Nora  Perry.     Portrait  and  Biographical  Sketch 133 

Dorothy.     By  Nora  Perry 135 

Augusta  Evans  Wilson.  Portrait  and  Biographical  Sketch  151 

The  Trial  of  Beryl.     By  Augusta  Evans  Wilson 157 

Louise  Chandler  Moulton.     Portrait  and  Biographical 

Sketch 243 

*  "  Nan."    By  Louise  Chandler  Moulton 247 

Celia  Thaxter.     Portrait  and  Biographical  Sketch 263 

A  Memorable  Murder.     By  Celia  Thaxter 267 

Mrs.  Sara  J.Lippincott.  Portrait  and  Biographical  Sketch  299 

A  Cup  of  Cold  Water.     By  Sara  J.  Lippincott 301 

A.bba  Gould  Woolson.    Portrait  and  Biographical  Sketch  311 
A.n  Evening's  Adventure.    By  Abba  Gould  Woolson. . .  .315 

tfary  J.  Holmes.     Portrait  and  Biographical  Sketch 333 

A-dam  Floyd.     By  Mary  J.  Holmes 335 


CONTENTS. 

Margaret  E.  Sangster.  Portrait  and  Biographical  Sketch  371 
My  Borrowing  Neighbor.  By  Margaret  E.  Sangster.  . .  .373 
Olive  Thome  Miller.  Portrait  and  Biographical  Sketch..  389 

The  Girls'  Sketching  Camp.    By  Olive  Thorne  Miller 391 

Elizabeth  W.    Chatnpney.     Portrait  and    Biographical 

Sketch 417 

A  Crisis.     By  Elizabeth  W.  Champney 419 

Julia  C.  R.  Dorr.     Portrait  and  Biographical  Sketch 435 

Meg.     By  Julia  C.  R.  Dorr 437 

Marion  Harland.     Portrait  and  Biographical  Sketch 457 

A  Confederate  Idyl.     By  Marion  Harland 459 

Louisa  May  Alcott.     Portrait  and  Biographical  Sketch  ..483 

Transcendental  Wild  Oats.     By  Louisa  May  Alcott 485 

Ella  Wheeler  Wilcox.   Portrait  and  Biographical  Sketch  509 

Daves  Wife.     3y  Ella  Wheeler  Wilcox 511 

Roso  Terry  Cooke.  Portrait  and  Biographical  Sketch.. .531 
The  Deacon's  Week.  By  Rose  Terry  Cooke 533 


PREFACE. 


THE  woman's  story  as  told  by  twenty  American 
women  is  a  composite  picture  of  the  representative 
fiction  work  of  the  female  writers  of  the  republic.  It 
is  one  which  depicts  the  types  and  characteristics  of 
people  who  unitedly  compose  our  young  nation.  The 
composite  woman's  picture  is  full  of  patriotic  fire  ;  of 
the  fervor  and  faith  of  free  institutions,  and  is  distin- 
guished by  a  zealous  allegiance  to  the  domestic  quali- 
ties of  the  people,  which  have  found  widest  expression 
under  our  form  of  government.  The  differences  in 
population ;  the  varieties  of  classes,  and  the  broad 
distinctions  in  local  coloring  are  vividly  exhibited  in  the 
annals  of  American  fiction,  the  largest  contributors  to 
which  are  women.  The  compilation  represents  the 
field  of  fiction,  from  the  appearance  of  the  first  great 
American  novel  to  the  present  day.  Mrs.  Stowe's 
sketch  of  New  England  life,  which  opens  the  volume, 
was  the  forerunner  of  "Uncle  Tom's  Cabin,"  and  is  as 
graphic  a  pen-picture  of  the  phase  of  life  it  represents 
as  was  her  famous  novel  of  slavery.  Miss  Alcott's 
"  Transcendental  Wild  Oats  "  is  the  truest  delineation  of 
the  salient  features  of  the  Transcendental  movement 
yet  made,  and  is  as  striking  in  its  faithfulness  as  is 
Mrs.  Stowe's  "Uncle  Lot." 

Both  these  sketches  were  selected  by  their  authors 
for  this  volume,  as  were  each  and  every  one  in  it,  and 
in  every  case  the  writers  pronounced  them  to  be  their 
best  sketch  work.  They  are  as  a  whole  a  represen- 
tative collection,  and  portray  the  ideality,  graceful 
diction,  and  marked  individuality  of  our  national  liter- 
ature. For  their  use  in  this  form,  I  am  gratefully 
indebted  to  Messrs.  Charles  Scribner's  Sons,  Harper 
Bros.,  Roberts  Bros.,  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.,  Charles 
Dillingham,  The  American  Publishing  Company,  and 
The  Century  Company. 


UNCLE    LOT, 


BY 


HARRIET  BEECHER  STOWE. 


HARRIET  BEECHER  STOWE. 


HARRIET  BEECHER  STOWE,  the  daughter  of  the  Rev. 
Lyman  Beecher,  was  born  at  Litchfield,  Conn.,  in  1812, 
and  was  one  of  the  most  gifted  of  the  brilliant  children 
of  that  remarkable  New  England  divine.  She  was  a 
precocious  child,  and  was  at  the  age  of  five  a  fluent 
reader.  Her  mother  died  when  she  was  four  years  of 
age,  and  her  brother  Henry  was  the  baby  of  the  house- 
hold. When  she  was  seven  she  was  sent  as  a  pupil  to 
the  seminary  at  Litchfield,  then  under  the  management 
of  one  of  the  leading  educators  of  his  time,  Mr.  Brace. 
At  twelve  years  she  was  writing  compositions  on  such 
topics  as,  "  Can  the  immortality  of  the  soul  be  proved 
by  light  of  nature  ?  "  This  was  the  theme  of  her  essay 
for  the  annual  exhibition  and  she  says  of  it :  "I  re- 
member the  scene  to  me  so  eventful.  The  hall  was 
crowded  with  all  the  literati  of  Litchfield.  Before 
them  all  our  compositions  were  read  aloud.  When 
mine  was  read,  I  noticed  that  father,  who  was  sitting 
on  the  right  of  Mr.  Brace,  brightened,  and  looked  in- 
terested, and  at  the  close  I  heard  him  say,  "  Who  wrote 
that  composition  ?  "  "  Your  daughter,  sir,"  was  the 
answer.  It  was  the  proudest  moment  of  my  life. 
There  was  no  mistaking  father's  face  when  he  was 
pleased,  and  to  have  interested  him  was  past  all  juve- 
nile triumphs." 

In  1836  she  became  the  wife  of  the  Rev.  Dr.  E.  C. 
Stowe,  and  for  a  number  of  years  resided  in  Cincin- 
nati, where  he  was  a  professor  in  the  Lane  Theological 
Seminary.  She  wrote  sketches  for  periodicals  and 
Sunday-school  books,  thus  trying  to  add  to  her  slender 
resources,  for,  with  a  growing  family  her  husband's 
limited  income  did  not  suffice  to  allow  of  any  luxuries. 

I  asked  her  recently  to  tell  me  which  of  the  short 
stories  she  had  written  she  considered  her  best,  and 
^he  answered :  "  The  New  England  story,  '  Uncle  Lot,1 
ur 


X  HARRIET  BEECHER  STOWE. 

was  the  first  story  I  ever  wrote,  and  I  still  think  it  the 
best  of  the  collected  stories  published  in  the  '  May- 
flower.' It  was  written  primarily  for  a  literary  circle 
called  the  '  Semicolon,'  which  had  its  weekly  sessions 
at  the  home  of  my  uncle,  S.  E.  Foote  ;  then  it  was  pub- 
lished by  Judge  Hall  in  his  monthly  magazine."  Mrs. 
Stowe  is  the  typical  New  England  representative  of  fic- 
tion among  women,  and  is  the  foremost  American 
writer  of  her  day,  hence  her  story  has  the  place  of 
honor  in  this  collection.  Her  "Uncle  Tom's  Cabin  " 
was  the  most  successful  book  published  in  the  world 
in  this  century.  It  has  been  translated  into  nineteen 
different  languages,  and  has  had  an  enormous  sale 
throughout  the  civilized  world. 

While  she  was  residing  in  Cincinnati,  Mrs.  Stowe 
visited  Kentucky  and  there  came  in  direct  contact 
with  the  institution  she  abhorred.  The  result  of  her 
acquaintance  was  that  she  was  more  than  ever  con- 
firmed in  her  hostility,  and  as  the  subject  of  slavery 
was  uppermost  in  the  public  mind  she  naturally 
thought  and  talked  much  of  it  among  her  New  Eng- 
land friends.  Her  husband  was  one  of  the  professors 
of  Bowdoin  College,  and  she  came  in  contact  with  the 
educators  of  that  and  other  institutions  where  the 
question  of  abolition  was  often  the  topic  of  conversa- 
tion. 

The  anti-slavery  paper  in  Washington  at  that  time 
was  the  National  Era,  and  the  editors  of  it  invited 
Mrs.  Stowe  to  write  them  a  serial  story.  She  con- 
sulted her  brother  Henry  and  he  advised  her  to  accept 
the  offer  made.  That  was  the  beginning  of  "Uncle 
Tom's  Cabin."  When  it  was  finished  the  author  was 
completely  used  up,  and  was  sick  in  bed  for  several 
days.  The  chapters  were  written  from  week  to  week 
and  »-ead  to  the  family  every  night.  Mrs.  Stowe  always 
spertks  of  this  book  as  having  been  revealed  to  her,  and 
very  recently  she  declared  that  she  did  not  write  it, 
that  God  gave  it  to  her. 

The  authorship  of  "  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin  "  was  for  a 
time  attributed  to  Mr.  Beecher.  He  very  wittily  said 
that  he  could  never  stop  the  scandalous  story  until  he 
wrote  his  novel,  "  Norwood  " ;  that  ended  the  matter. 

Mrs.  Stowe's  "Minister's  Wooing"  is  considered 
the  best  of  her  works  after  "Uncle  Tom's  Cabin,"' 


xi  HARRIET  BEECHER  STOWE. 

From  a  literary  point  of  view  it  is  superior  to  her 
famous  story.  Mr.  Gladstone  wrote  her  that  he  "  con- 
sidered it  one  of  the  most  charming  pictures  of  Puritan 
life  possible."  It  graphically  portrays  the  Calvinistic 
side  of  New  England  life,  and  will  occupy  a  perma- 
nent place  in  American  fiction. 

In  1853  Mrs.  Stowe  travelled  in  Europe  and  wrote 
an  account  of  her  tour  in  a  volume  entitled  "  Sunny 
Memories  of  Foreign  Lands."  Other  works  of  hers 
are  "  Dred,  a  Tale  of  the  Great  Dismal  Swamp "  ; 
"  Oldtown  Folks  "  ;  "  My  Wife  and  I  "  ;  "  The  Pearl 
of  Orr's  Island  " ;  and  "  Palmetto  Sketches." 

For  several  years  Mrs.  Stowe's  pen  has  been  idle ; 
she  is  growing  old  and  her  work  is  done.  The  death 
of  her  husband,  Professor  Stowe,  and  then  of  her 
brother,  Henry  Ward  Beecher,  cast  shadows  over  her 
life,  from  which  she  will  not  emerge.  For  some  years 
she  had  a  winter  residence  in  Florida,  spending  her 
summers  at  her  home  in  Hartford,  but  she  parted  with 
it  and  resides  permanently  in  Hartford  with  her  twin 
daughters,  who  are  unmarried.  Mrs.  Stowe's  eldest 
son,  Rev.  Charles  Stowe,  is  a  Congregationalist  min- 
ister in  Hartford,  and  has  been  selected  by  his  distin- 
guished mother  as  her  biographer. 


UNCLE  LOT. 


AND  so  I  am  to  write  a  story,  but  of  what  and 
where  ?  Shall  it  be  radiant  with  the  sky  of  Italy  ?  or 
eloquent  with  the  beau  ideal  of  Greece  ?  Shall  it  breathe 
odor  and  languor  from  the  orient,  or  chivalry  from  the 
Occident  ?  or  gayety  from  France  ?  or  vigor  from  Eng- 
land? No,  no,  these  are  all  too  old,  too  romance  like, 
too  obviously  picturesque  for  me.  No,  let  me  turn  to 
my  own  land,  my  own  New  England  ;  the  land  of 
bright  fires  and  strong  hearts ;  the  land  of  deeds,  and 
not  of  words  :  the  land  of  fruits  and  not  of  flowers,  the 
land  often  spoken  against,  yet  always  respected,  "the 
latchet  of  whose  shoes  the  nations  of  the  earth  are  not 
worthy  to  unloose."  Now  from  this  very  heroic  apos- 
trophe, you  may  suppose  that  I  have  something  very 
heroic  to  tell.  By  no  means.  It  is  merely  a  little  in- 
troductory breeze  of  patriotism,  such  as  occasionally 
brushes  over  every  mind,  bearing  on  its  wings  the  re- 
membrance of  all  we  ever  loved  or  cherished  in  the 
land  of  our  early  years,  and  if  it  should  seem  to  be 
rodomontade  to  any  people  in  other  parts  of  the  earth, 
let  them  only  imagine  it  to  be  said  about  "  Old  Ken- 
tuck,"  Old  England,  or  any  other  corner  of  the  world 
in  which  they  happened  to  be  born,  and  they  will  find 
it  quite  rational. 

But,  as  touching  our  story,  it  is  time  to  begin.  Did 
you  ever  see  the  little  village  of  Newbury,  in  New 
England  ?  I  dare  say  you  never  did,  for  it  was  just  one 
of  those  out-of-the-way  places  where  nobody  ever 
came  unless  they  came  on  purpose :  a  green  little  hol- 
low, wedged  like  a  bird's  nest  between  half  a  dozen 
high  hills,  that  kept  off  the  wind  and  kept  out  foreign- 
ers, so  that  the  little  place  was  as  strictly  sui  generis 
«s  if  there  were  not  another  in  the  world.  The  in- 
habitants were  all  of  that  respectable  old  standfast 
hubily  who  make  it  a  point  to  be  born,  bred,  married, 


2  UNCLE  LOT. 

die,  and  be  buried  all  in  the  self  same  spot.  There 
were  just  so  many  houses,  and  just  so  many  people 
lived  in  them ;  and  nobody  ever  seemed  to  be  sick 
or  to  die  either,  at  least,  while  I  was  there.  The 
natives  grew  old  till  they  could  not  grow  any  older, 
and  then  they  stood  still,  and  lasted  from  generation  to 
generation. 

There  was,  too,  an  unchangeability  about  all  the 
externals  of  Newbury.  Here  was  a  red  house,  and 
there  was  a  brown  house,  and  across  the  way  was  a 
yellow  house  ;  and  there  was  a  straggling  rail  fence  or 
a  tribe  of  mullein  stalks  between.  The  minister  lived 
there,  and  'Squire  Moses  lived  there,  and  Deacon  Hart 
lived  under  the  hill,  and  Messrs.  Nadab  and  Abihu 
Peters  lived  by  the  cross  road,  and  the  old  "  Widder  " 
Smith  lived  by  the  meeting  house,  and  Ebenezer  Camp 
kept  a  shoemaker's  shop  on  one  side,  and  Patience 
Mosely  kept  a  milliner's  shop  in  front ;  and  there  was 
old  Comfort  Scran  who  kept  store  for  the  whole  town, 
and  sold  axe  heads,  brass  thimbles,  licorice  ball,  fancy 
handkerchiefs,  and  everything  else  you  can  think  of. 
Here,  too,  was  the  general  post-office,  where  you  might 
see  letters  marvellously  folded,  directed  wrong  side 
upward,  stamped  with  a  thimble,  and  superscribed  to 
some  of  the  Dollys  or  Pollys  or  Peters  or  Moseses 
aforenamed  or  not  named.  For  the  rest,  as  to  man- 
ners, morals,  arts  and  sciences,  the  people  in  New- 
bury always  went  to  their  parties  at  three  o'clock  in 
the  afternoon,  and  came  home  before  dark,  always 
stopped  all  work  the  minute  the  sun  was  down  on 
Saturday  night ;  always  went  to  meeting  on  Sunday : 
had  a  school-house  with  all  the  ordinary  inconven- 
iences ;  were  in  neighborly  charity  with  each  other ; 
read  their  Bibles,  feared  their  God,  and  were  content 
with  such  things  as  they  had, — the  best  philosophy  after 
all.  Such  was  the  place  into  which  Master  James 
Benton  made  an  irruption  in  the  year  eighteen  hundred 
and  no  matter  what.  Now  this  James  is  to  be  out 
hero,  and  he  is  just  the  hero  for  a  sensation,  at  least, 
so  you  would  have  thought  if  you  had  been  in  New- 
bury the  week  after  his  arrival.  Master  James  was 
one  of  those  whole-hearted  energetic  Yankees,  who 
rise  in  the  world  as  naturally  as  cork  does  in  water. 
He  possessed  a  great  share  of  that  characteristic 


B  Y  HARRIE  T  B  EEC  HER  STO  WE.  3 

national  trait  so  happily  denominated  "  cuteness,"  which 
signifies  an  ability  to  do  everything  without  trying,  and 
to  know  everything  without  learning,  and  to  make 
more  use  of  one's  ignorance  than  other  people  do  of 
their  knowledge.  This  quality  in  James  was  mingled 
with  an  elasticity  of  animal  spirits,  a  buoyant  cheerful- 
ness of  mind,  which,  though  found  in  the  New  Eng- 
land character,  perhaps  as  often  as  anywhere  else,  is 
not  ordinarily  regarded  as  one  of  its  distinguishing 
traits. 

As  to  the  personal  appearance  of  our  hero,  we  have 
not  much  to  say  of  it — not  half  so  much  as  the  girls  in 
Newbury  found  it  necessary  to  remark,  the  first  Sab- 
bath that  he  shone  out  in  the  meeting  house.  There 
was  a  saucy  frankness  of  countenance,  a  knowing 
roguery  of  eye,  a  jovialty  and  prankishness  of  de- 
meanor that  was  wonderfully  captivating,  especially 
to  the  ladies. 

It  is  true  that  Master  James  had  an  uncommonly 
comfortable  opinion  of  himself,  a  full  faith  that 
there  was  nothing  in  creation  that  he  could  not 
learn  and  could  not  do,  and  this  faith  was  main- 
tained with  an  abounding  and  triumphant  joyful- 
ness  that  fairly  carried  your  sympathies  along  with 
him,  and  made  you  feel  quite  as  much  delighted 
with  his  qualifications  and  prospects  as  he  felt  him- 
self. There  are  two  kinds  of  self-sufficiency :  one 
is  amusing  and  the  other  is  provoking.  He  was  the 
amusing  kind.  It  seemed,  in  truth,  to  be  only  the 
buoyancy  and  overflow  of  a  vivacious  mind,  delighted 
with  everything  delightful,  in  himself  or  others.  He 
was  always  ready  to  magnify  his  own  praise,  but  quite 
as  ready  to  exalt  his  neighbor  if  the  channel  of  dis- 
course ran  that  way ;  his  own  perfections  being  more 
completely  within  his  knowledge,  he  rejoiced  in  them 
more  constantly;  but  if  those  of  any  one  else  came 
within  the  same  range,  he  was  quite  as  much  astonished 
and  edified  as  if  they  had  been  his  own.  Master 
James,  at  the  time  of  his  transit  to  the  town  of  New- 
bury, was  only  eighteen  years  of  age,  so  that  it  was 
difficult  to  say  which  predominated  in  him  most,  the 
boy  or  the  man.  The  belief  that  he  could,  and  the  de- 
termination that  he  would  be  something  in  the  world  had 
caused  him  to  abandon  his  home,  and  with  all  his  worldly 


4  UNCLE  LOT. 

effects  tied  in  a  blue  cotton  handkerchief  to  proceed  to 
seek  his  fortune  in  Newbury.  And  never  did  stranger 
in  Yankee  village  rise  to  promotion  with  more  unparal- 
leled rapidity,  or  boast  a  greater  plurality  of  employ- 
ment. He  figured  as  schoolmaster  all  the  week,  and 
as  chorister  on  Sundays,  and  taught  singing  and  read- 
ing in  the  evenings,  besides  studying  Latin  and  Greek 
with  the  minister,  nobody  knew  when,  thus  fitting  for 
college,  while  he  seemed  to  be  doing  everything  else 
in  the  world  besides. 

James  understood  every  art  and  craft  of  popularity, 
and  made  himself  mightily  at  home  in  all  the  chimney 
corners  of  the  region  round  about ;  knew  the  geogra- 
phy of  everybody's  cider  barrel  and  apple  bin,  helping 
himself  and  every  one  else  therefrom,  with  all  bountiful- 
ness;  rejoicing  in  the  good  things  of  this  life,  devour- 
ing the  old  ladies'  doughnuts  and  pumpkin  pies  with 
most  flattering  appetite,  and  appearing  equally  to  relish 
everybody  and  thing  that  carne  in  his  way. 

The  degree  and  versatility  of  his  acquirements  were 
truly  wonderful.  He  knew  all  about  arithmetic  and 
history,  and  all  about  catching  squirrels  and  planting 
corn ;  made  poetry  and  hoe  handles  with  equal  celer- 
ity; wound  yarn  and  took  out  grease  spots  for  old 
ladies,  and  made  nosegays  and  knick-knacks  for  young 
ones;  caught  trout  Saturday  afternoons,  and  discussed 
doctrines  on  Sundays,  with  equal  adroitness  and  effect. 
In  short,  Mr.  James  moved  on  through  the  place 

"  Victorious, 
Happy  and  glorious," 

welcomed  and  privileged  by  everybody  in  every  place. 
And  when  he  had  told  his  last  ghost  story,  and 
fairly  flourished  himself  out  of  doors  at  the  close  of  a 
long  winter's  evening,  you  might  see  the  hard  face  of 
the  good  man  of  the  house  still  phosphorescent  with 
his  departing  radiance,  and  hear  him  exclaim,  in  a 
paroxysm  of  admiration,  that  "  Jemese's  talk  re'ely  did 
beat  all;  that  he  was  sartainly  most  a  miraculus 
cretur  ! " 

It  was  wonderfully  contrary  to  the  buoyant  activity 
of  Master  James'  mind  to  keep  a  school.  He  had, 
moreover,  so  much  of  the  boy  and  the  rogue  in  his 


B  Y  HARRIE  T  BEECHER  STO  WE.  5 

composition,  that  he  could  not  be  strict  with  the  iniqui- 
ties of  the  curly  pates  under  his  charge ;  and  when  he 
saw  how  determinately  every  little  heart  was  boiling 
over  with  mischief  and  motion,  he  felt  in  his  soul  more 
disposed  to  join  in  and  help  them  to  a  frolic  than  to 
lay  justice  to  the  line,  as  was  meet.  This  would  have 
made  a  sad  case,  had  it  not  been  that  the  activity  of 
the  master's  mind  communicated  itself  to  his  charge, 
just  as  the  reaction  of  one  brisk  little  spring  will  fill 
a  manufactory  with  motion;  so  that  there  was  more  of 
an  impulse  towards  study  in  the  golden,  good  natured 
day  of  James  Benton  than  in  the  time  of  all  that  went 
before  or  came  after  him.  But  when  "  school  was 
out,"  James'  spirits  foamed  over  as  naturally  as  a  tum- 
bler of  soda  water,  and  he  could  jump  over  benches 
and  burst  out  of  doors  with  as  much  rapture  as  the 
veriest  little  elf  in  his  company.  Then  you  might  have 
seen  him  stepping  homeward  with  a  most  felicitous 
expression  of  countenance,  occasionally  reaching  his 
hand  through  the  fence  for  a  bunch  of  currants,  or 
over  it  after  a  flower,  or  bursting  into  some  back  yard 
to  help  an  old  lady  empty  her  wash-tub,  or  stopping  to 
pay  his  devoirs  to  Aunt  This  or  Mistress  That,  for 
James  well  knew  the  importance  of  the  "  powers  that 
be,"  and  always  kept  the  sunny  side  of  the  old  ladies. 

We  shall  not  answer  for  James'  general  flirtations, 
which  were  sundry  and  manifold;  for  he  had  just  the 
kindly  heart  that  fell  in  love  with  everything  in  femi- 
nine shape  that  came  in  his  way,  and  if  he  had  not 
been  blessed  with  an  equal  facility  in  falling  out  again, 
we  do  not  know  whatever  would  have  become  of  him. 
But  at  length  he  came  into  an  abiding  captivity  and  it 
is  quite  time  that  he  should,  for,  having  devoted  this 
much  space  to  the  illustration  of  our  hero,  it  is  fit  we 
should  do  something  in  behalf  of  our  heroine ;  and, 
therefore,  we  must  beg  the  reader's  attention  while  we 
draw  a  diagram  or  two  that  will  assist  him  in  gaining 
a  right  idea  of  her. 

Do  you  see  yonder  brown  house,  with  its  broad  roof 
slooping  almost  to  the  ground  on  one  side,  and  a  great, 
unsupported,  sun  bonnet  of  a  piazza  shooting  out  over 
the  front  door  ?  You  must  often  have  noticed  it ;  you 
have  seen  its  tall  well  sweep,  relieved  against  the  clear 
evening  sky,  or  observed  the  feather  beds  and  bolsters 


6  UNCLE  LOT. 

lounging  out  of  its  chamber  windows  on  a  still  sum- 
mer morning ;  you  recollect  its  gate,  that  swung  with 
a  chain  and  a  great  stone ;  its  pantry  window,  latticed 
with  little  brown  slabs,  and  looking  out  upon  a  forest 
of  bean  poles.  You  remember  the  zephyrs  that  used 
to  play  among  its  pea  brush,  and  shake  the  long  tas- 
sels of  its  corn-patch,  and  how  vainly  any  zephyr 
might  essay  to  perform  similar  flirtations  with  the  con- 
siderate cabbages  that  were  solemnly  vegetating  near 
by.  Then  there  was  the  whole  neighborhood  of  pur- 
ple-leaved beets,  and  feathery  parsnips ;  there  were 
the  billows  of  gooseberry  bushes  rolled  up  by  the 
fence>  interspersed  with  rows  of  quince  trees,  and  far 
off  in  one  corner  was  one  little  patch,  penuriously 
devoted  to  ornament,  which  flamed  with  marigolds, 
poppies,  snappers,  and  four-o'clocks.  Then  there  was 
a  little  box  by  itself  with  one  rose  geranium  in  it, 
which  seemed  to  look  around  the  garden  as  much  like 
a  stranger  as  a  French  dancing  master  in  a  Yankee 
meeting  house. 

That  is  the  dwelling  of  Uncle  Lot  Griswold.  Uncle 
Lot,  as  he  was  commonly  called,  had  a  character  that 
a  painter  would  sketch  for  its  lights  and  contrasts 
rather  than  its  symmetry.  He  was  a  chestnut  burr, 
abounding  with  briers  without  and  with  substantial 
goodness  within.  He  had  the  strong-grained  practical 
sense,  the  calculating  worldly  wisdom  of  his  class  of 
people  in  New  England ;  he  had,  too,  a  kindly  heart, 
but  all  the  strata  of  his  character  were  crossed  by  a 
vein  of  surly  petulance,  that,  half  way  between  joke 
and  earnest,  colored  everything  that  he  said  and  did. 

If  you  asked  a  favor  of  Uncle  Lot,  he  generally  kept 
you  arguing  half  an  hour,  to  prove  that  you  really 
needed  it,  and  to  tell  you  that  he  could  not  all  the 
while  be  troubled  with  helping  one  body  or  another, 
all  which  time  you  might  observe  him  regularly  making 
his  preparations  to  grant  your  request,  and  see,  by  an 
odd  glimmer  of  his  eye,  that  he  was  preparing  to  let 
you  hear  the  "conclusion  of  the  whole  matter,"  which 
was,  "  well,  well — I  guess — I'll  go  on  the  hull — I  'spose 
I  must  at  least ; "  so  off  he  would  go  and  work  while 
the  day  lasted,  and  then  wind  up  with  a  farewell 
exhortation  "  not  to  be  a  cailin'  on  your  neighbors 
when  you  could  get  along  without."  If  any  of  Uncle 


B  Y  HARRIE  T  BEECHER  STO  WE.  / 

Lot's  neighbors  were  in  any  trouble,  he  was  always  at 
hand  to  tell  them  that  "  they  shouldn't  a'  done  so;  " 
that  "  it  was  strange  they  couldn't  had  more  sense  ;  " 
and  then  to  close  his  exhortations  by  laboring  more 
diligently  than  any  to  bring  them  out  of  their  difficul- 
ties, groaning  in  spirit,  meanwhile,  that  folks  would 
make  people  so  much  trouble. 

"  Uncle  Lot,  father  wants  to  know  if  you  will  lend 
him  your  hoe  to-day,"  says  a  little  boy,  making  his  way 
across  a  cornfield. 

"Why  don't  your  father  use  his  own  hoe  ?  " 

"  Ours  is  broke." 

"  Broke  !     How  came  it  broke  ?  " 

"  I  broke  it  yesterday,  trying  to  hit  a  squirrel." 

"  What  business  had  you  to  be  hittin'  squirrels  with 
a  hoe  ?  Say !  " 

"But  father  wants  to  borrow  yours." 

"  Why  don't  you  have  that  mended  ?  It's  a  great 
pest  to  have  everybody  usin'  a  body's  things." 

"  Well,  I  can  borrow  one  some  where  else,  I  sup- 
pose," says  the  suppliant.  After  the  boy  lias  stumbled 
across  the  ploughed  ground  and  is  fairly  over  the 
fence,  Uncle  Lot  calls, — "  Halloo,  there,  you  little 
rascal !  What  are  you  goin'  off  without  the  hoe  for?" 

"  I  didn't  know  as  you  meant  to  lend  it." 

"  I  didn't  say  I  wouldn't,  did  I  ?  Here,  come  and 
take  it — stay,  I'll  bring  it ;  and  do  tell  your  father  not 
to  be  a  let'tin'  you  hunt  squirrels  with  his  hoes  next 
time." 

Uncle  Lot's  household  consisted  of  Aunt  Sally,  his 
wife  and  an  only  son  and  daughter ;  the  former  at  the 
time  our  story  begins,  was  at  a  neighboring  literary 
institution.  Aunt  Sally  was  precisely  as  clever,  as 
easy  to  be  entreated,  and  kindly  in  externals,  as  her 
helpmate  was  the  reverse.  She  was  one  of  those 
respectable,  pleasant  old  ladies  whom  you  might  often 
have  met  on  the  way  to  church  on  a  Sunday,  equipped 
with  a  great  fan  and  a  psalm  book,  and  carrying  some 
dried  orange  peel  or  a  stalk  of  fennel,  to  give  to  the 
children  if  they  were  sleepy  in  meeting.  She  was  as 
cheerful  and  domestic  as  the  tea  kettle  that  sung  by 
her  kitchen  fire,  and  slipped  along  among  Uncle  Lot's 
angles  and  peculiarities  as  if  there  never  was  anything 
the  matter  in  the  world  ;  and  the  same  mantle  of  sun- 


8  UNCLE  LOT. 

shine  seemed  to  have  fallen  on  Miss  Grace,  her  only 
daughter. 

Pretty  in  person  and  pleasant  in  her  ways,  endowed 
with  native  self-possession  and  address,  lively  and 
chatty,  having  a  mind  and  a  will  of  her  own,  yet  good- 
humored  withal,  Miss  Grace  was  a  universal  favorite. 
It  would  have  puzzled  a  city  lady  to  understand  how 
Grace,  who  never  was  out  of  Newbury  in  her  life,  knew 
the  way  to  speak,  and  act,  and  behave,  on  all  occas- 
ions, exactly  as  if  she  had  been  taught  how. 

She  was  just  one  of  those  wild  flowers  which  you 
may  sometimes  see  waving  its  little  head  in  the  woods, 
and  looking  so  civilized  and  arden-like,  that  you 
wonder  it  it  really  did  come  up  and  grow  there  by 
nature.  She  was  an  adept  in  all  household  concerns, 
and  there  was  something  amazingly  pretty  in  her  ener- 
getic way  of  bustling  about,  and  "  putting  things  to 
rights."  Like  most  Yankee  damsels,  she  had  a  long- 
ing after  the  tree  of  knowledge,  and,  having  exhausted 
the  literary  fountains  of  a  district  school,  she  fell  to 
reading  whatsoever  came  in  her  way.  True,  she  had 
but  little  to  read  ;  but  what  she  perused  she  had  her 
own  thoughts  upon,  so  that  a  person  of  information,  in 
talking  with  her,  would  feel  a  constant  wondering 
pleasure  to  find  that  she  had  so  much  to  say  of  this, 
that,  and  the  other  thing  than  he  expected. 

Uncle  Lot,  like  every  one  else,  felt  the  magical 
brightness  of  his  daughter,  and  was  delighted  with  her 
praises,  as  might  be  discerned  by  his  often  finding 
occasion  to  remark  that  "  he  didn't  see  why  the  boys 
need  to  be  all  the  time  a'  comin'  to  see  Grace,  for  she 
was  nothing  so  extr'or'nary  after  all." 

About  all  matters  and  things  at  home  she  gen- 
erally had  her  own  way,  while  Uncle  Lot  would  scold 
and  give  up  with  a  regular  good  grace  that  was  quite 
creditable. 

"  Father,"  says  Grace,  "  I  want  to  have  a  party  next 
week." 

"  You  sha'n't  go  to  havin'  your  parties,  Grace.  I 
always  have  to  eat  bits  and  ends  a  fortnight  after  you 
have  one,  and  I  won't  have  it  so."  And  so  Uncle  Lot 
walked  out,  and  Aunt  Sally  and  Miss  Grace  proceeded 
to  make  the  cake  and  pies  for  the  party. 


B  Y  HARRIE T  BEECHER  STO  WE.  9 

When  Uncle  Lot  came  home,  he  saw  a  long  array 
of  pies  and  rows  of  cakes  on  the  kitchen  table. 

"  Grace— Grace— Grace,  I  say !  What  is  all  this 
here  flummery  for  ?  " 

"  Why,  it  is  to  eat,  father,"  said  Grace,  with  a  good- 
natured  look  of  consciousness.  Uncle  Lot  tried  his 
best  to  look  sour ;  but  his  visage  began  to  wax  comical 
as  he  looked  at  his  merry  daughter  ;  so  he  said  nothing, 
but  quietly  sat  down  to  his  dinner. 

"Father,"  said  Grace,  after  dinner,  "we  shall  want 
two  more  candlesticks  next  week." 

"  Why  can't  you  have  your  party  with  what  you've 
got  ? " 

"No,  father,  we  want  two  more." 

"  I  can't  afford  it,  Grace — there's  no  sort  of  use  on't 
— and  you  sha'n't  have  any." 

"  Oh,  father,  now  do,"  said  Grace. 

"  I  won't,  neither,"  said  Uncle  Lot,  as  he  sallied  out 
of  the  house,  and  took  the  road  to  Comfort  Scran's 
store. 

In  half  an  hour  he  returned  again  ;  and  fumbling 
in  his  pocket,  and  drawing  forth  a  candlestick,  levelled 
it  at  Grace. 

"  There's  your  candlestick." 

"  But,  father,  I  said  I  wanted  two" 

"  Why  can't  you  make  one  do  ? " 

"  No,  I  can't ;  I  must  have  two." 

"  Well,  then,  there's  t'other ;  and  here's  a  fol-de-rol 
for  you  to  tie  around  your  neck."  So  saying,  he  bolted 
for  the  door,  and  took  himself  off  with  all  speed.  It 
was  much  after  this  fashion  that  matters  commonly 
went  on  in  the  brown  house.  But  having  tarried 
long  on  the  way,  we  must  proceed  with  the  main 
story. 

James  thought  Miss  Grace  was  a  glorious  girl ;  and 
as  to  what  Miss  Grace  thought  of  Master  James,  per- 
haps it  would  not  have  been  developed  had  she  not 
been  called  to  stand  on  the  defensive  for  him  with 
Uncle  Lot.  For,  from  the  time  that  the  whole  village 
of  Newbury  began  to  be  wholly  given  unto  the  praise 
of  Master  James,  Uncle  Lot  set  his  face  as  a  flint 
against  him — from  the  laudable  fear  of  following  the 
multitude.  He  therefore  made  conscience  of  stoutly 
gainsaying  everything  that  was  said  in  his  behalf, 


10  UNCLE  LOT. 

which,  as  James  was  in  high  favor  with  Aunt  Sally,  he 
had  frequent  opportunities  to  do. 

So  when  Miss  Grace  perceived  that  Uncle  Lot  did 
not  like  our  hero  as  much  as  he  ought  to  do,  she,  of 
course,  was  bound  to  like  him  well  enough  to  make  up 
for  it.  Certain  it  is  that  they  were  remarkably  happy 
in  finding  opportunities  of  being  acquainted,  that 
James  wailed  on  her,  as  a  matter  of  course,  from  sing- 
ing school,  that  he  volunteered  making  a  new  box 
for  her  geranium  on  an  improved  plan,  and  above  all, 
that  he  was  remarkably  particular  in  his  attentions  to 
Aunt  Sally — a  stroke  of  policy  which  showed  James 
had  a  natural  genius  for  this  sort  of  matters.  Even 
when  emerging  from  the  meeting  house  in  full  glory, 
with  flute  and  psalm  book  under  his  arm,  he  would 
stop  to  ask  her  how  she  did ;  and  if  it  was  cold 
weather,  he  would  carry  her  foot  stove  all  the  way 
home  from  meeting,  discoursing  upon  the  sermon,  and 
other  serious  matters,  as  Aunt  Sally  observed  "  in  the 
pleasantest,  prettiest  way  that  ever  ye  see."  This 
flute  was  one  of  the  crying  sins  of  James  in  the  eyes 
of  Uncle  Lot.  James  was  particularly  fond  of  it, 
because  he  had  learned  to  play  on  it  by  intuition,  and 
on  the  decease  of  the  old  pitchpipe,  which  was  slain 
by  a  fall  from  the  gallery,  he  took  the  liberty  to  intro- 
duce the  flute  in  its  place.  For  this,  and  other  sins,  and 
for  the  good  reason  above  named,  Uncle  Lot's  counte- 
nance was  not  towards  James,  neither  could  he  be 
moved  to  him-ward  by  any  manner  of  means. 

To  all  Aunt  Sally's  good  words  and  kind  speeches, 
he  had  only  to  say  that  "he  didn't  like  him,  that  he 
hated  to  see  him  a'  manifesting  and  glorifying  there  in 
the  front  gallery  Sundays,  and  a'  acting  everywhere  as 
if  he  was  master  of  all;  he  didn't  like  it,  and  he 
wouldn't."  But  our  hero  was  no  whit  cast  down  or 
discomfited  by  the  malcontent  aspect  of  Uncle  Lot. 
On  the  contrary,  when  report  was  made  to  him  of 
divers  of  his  hard  speeches,  he  only  shrugged  his 
shoulders  with  a  very  satisfied  air,  and  remarked  that 
"he  knew  a  thing  or  two  for  all  that." 

"  Why,  James,"  said  his  companion  and  chief  coun- 
sellor, "  do  you  think  Grace  likes  you  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  our  hero,  with  a  comfortable 
appearance  of  certainty. 


B  V  HARRIE  T  SEE  CtiER  S  TO  WE.  1 1 

"But  you  can't  get  her,  James,  if  Uncle  Lot  is  cross 
about  it." 

"  Fudge  !  I  can  make  Uncle  Lot  like  me  if  I  have  a 
mind  to  try." 

"  Well  then,  Jim,  you'll  have  to  give  up  that  flute  of 
yours,  I  tell  you  now." 

"  Fa  sol  la — I  can  make  him  like  me  and  my  flute 
too." 

"  Why,  how  will  you  do  it  ? " 

"  Oh,  I'll  work  it,"  said  our  hero. 

"Well,  Jim,  I  tell  you  now,  you  don't  know  Uncle 
Lot  if  you  say  so ;  for  he  is  just  the  settest  critter  in  his 
own  way  that  ever  you  saw." 

"  I  do  know  Uncle  Lot  though,  better  than  most 
folks ;  he  is  no  more  cross  than  I  am  ;  and  as  to  his 
being  set,  you  have  nothing  to  do  but  to  make  him 
think  he  is  in  his  own  way,  when  he  is  in  yours — that 
is  all." 

"  Well,"  said  the  other,  "  but  you  see  I  don't  believe 
it." 

"  And  I'll  bet  you  a  gray  squirrel  that  I'll  go  there 
this  very  evening,  and  get  him  to  like  me  and  my  flute 
both,"  said  James. 

Accordingly  the  late  sunshine  of  that  afternoon 
shone  full  on  the  yellew  buttons  of  James  as  he  pro- 
ceeded to  the  place  of  conflict.  It  was  a  bright,  beauti- 
ful evening.  A  thunder  storm  had  just  cleared  away, 
and  the  silver  clouds  lay  rolled  up  in  masses  around 
the  setting  sun ;  the  rain  drops  were  sparkling  and 
winking  to  each  other  over  the  ends  of  the  leaves, 
and  all  the  blue-birds  and  robins,  breaking  forth  into 
song,  made  the  little  green  valley  as  merry  as  a  musi- 
cal box. 

James'  soul  was  always  overflowing  with  the  kind 
of  poetry  which  consists  in  feeling  unspeakably  happy ; 
and  it  is  not  to  be  wondered  at,  considering  where  he 
was  going,  that  he  should  feel  in  a  double  ecstasy  on 
the  present  occasion.  He  stepped  gayly  along,  occa- 
sionally springing  over  a  fence  to  the  right  to  see 
whether  the  rain  had  swollen  the  trout  brook,  or  to  the 
left  to  notice  the  ripening  of  Mr.  Somebody's  water- 
melons— for  James  always  had  an  eye  on  all  his  neigh- 
bors' matters  as  well  as  his  own. 

In  this  way  he  proceeded  till  he  arrived  at  the  picket 


12  UNCLE  LOT. 

fence  that  marked  the  commencement  of  Uncle  Lot's 
ground.  Here  he  stopped  to  consider.  Just  then  four 
or  five  sheep  walked  up,  and  began  also  to  consider  a 
loose  picket,  which  was  hanging  just  ready  to  drop  off ; 
and  James  began  to  look  at  the  sheep. 

"  Well,  mister,"  said  he,  as  he  observed  the  leader 
judiciously  drawing  himself  through  the  gap,  "  in  with 
you — just  what  I  wanted,"  and  having  waited  a  moment 
to  ascertain  that  all  the  company  were  likely  to  follow, 
he  ran  with  all  haste  towards  the  house,  and  swing- 
ing open  the  gate,  pressed  all  breathless  to  the  door. 

"  Uncle  Lot,  there  are  four  or  five  sheep  in  your 
garden  ! " 

Uncle  Lot  dropped  his  whetstone  and  scythe. 

"  I'll  drive  them  out,"  said  our  hero ;  and  with  that, 
he  ran  down  the  garden  alley,  and  made  a  furious  de- 
scent on  the  enemy ;  bestirring  himself,  as  Bunyan  says, 
"  lustily  and  with  good  courage,"  till  every  sheep  had 
skipped  out  much  quicker  than  it  skipped  in  ;  and 
then,  springing  over  the  fence,  he  seized  a  great  stone, 
and  nailed  on  the  picket  so  effectually  that  no  sheep 
could  possibly  encourage  the  hope  of  getting  in  again. 
This  was  all  the  work  of  a  minute,  and  he  was  back 
again ;  but  so  exceedingly  out  of  breath  that  it  was 
necessary  for  him  to  stop  a  moment  and  rest  himself. 
Uncle  Lot  looked  ungraciously  satisfied. 

"  What  under  the  canopy  set  you  to  scampering 
so  ? "  said  he.  "  I  could  a'  driv  out  them  critturs 
myself." 

"  If  you  are  at  all  particular  about  driving  them  out 
yourself,  I  can  let  them  in  again,"  said  James. 

Uncle  Lot  looked  at  him  with  an  odd  sort  of  twinkle 
in  the  corner  of  his  eye. 

"  'Spose  I  must  ask  you  to  walk  in,"  said  he. 

"  Much  obliged,"  said  James,  "  but  I  am  in  a  great 
hurry."  So  saying,  he  started  in  a  very  business-like 
fashion  towards  the  gate. 

"  You'd  better  jest  stop  a  minute." 

"  Can't  stay  a  minute." 

"  I  don't  see  what  possesses  you  to  be  all  the  while 
in  sich  a  hurry ;  a  body  would  think  you  had  all 
creation  on  your  shoulders." 

"Just  my  situation,  Uncle  Lot,"  said  James,  swing- 
ing open  the  gate. 


BY  HA  RRIE  T  BE  EC  HEX  STO  WE.  1 3 

"  Well,  at  any  rate,  have  a  drink  of  cider,  can't  yc  ?  " 
said  Uncle  Lot,  who  was  now  quite  engaged  to  have 
his  own  way  in  the  case. 

James  found  it  convenient  to  accept  this  invitation, 
and  Uncle  Lot  was  twice  as  good  natured  as  if  he  had 
staid  in  the  first  of  the  matter. 

Once  fairly  forced  into  the  premises,  James  thought 
fit  to  forget  his  long  walk  and  excess  of  business, 
especially  as  about  that  moment  Aunt  Sally  and  Miss 
Grace  returned  from  an  afternoon  call.  You  may  be 
sure  that  the  last  thing  these  respectable  ladies  looked 
for  was  to  find  Uncle  Lot  and  Master  James  tete-a-tete, 
over  a  pitcher  of  cider  ;  and  when,  as  they  entered,  our 
hero  looked  up  with  something  of  a  mischievous  air, 
Miss  Grace,  in  particular,  was  so  puzzled  that  it  took 
at  least  a  quarter  of  an  hour  to  untie  her  bonnet 
strings.  But  James  staid,  and  acted  the  agreeable  to 
perfection.  First  he  must  needs  go  down  into  the 
garden  to  look  at  Uncle  Lot's  wonderful  cabbages,  and 
then  he  promenaded  all  around  the  corn  patch,  stop- 
ping every  few  moments  and  looking  up  with  an  ap- 
pearance of  great  gratification,  as  if  he  had  never  seen 
such  corn  in  his  life ;  and  then  he  examined  Uncle 
Lot's  favorite  apple  tree  with  an  expression  of  wonder- 
ful interest. 

"  I  never!  "  he  broke  forth,  having  stationed  himself 
against  the  fence  opposite  to  it ;  "  what  kind  of  an 
apple  tree  is  that  ?  " 

"  It's  a  bellflower,  or  somethin'  another,"  said  Uncle 
Lot. 

"  Why,  where  did  you  get  it  ?  I  never  saw  such 
apples  ! "  said  our  hero,  with  his  eyes  still  fixed  on 
the  tree. 

Uncle  Lot  pulled  up  a  stalk  or  two  of  weeds,  and 
threw  them  over  the  fence,  just  to  show  that  he  did  not 
care  anything  about  the  matter;  and  then-he  came  up 
and  stood  by  James. 

"  Nothin'  so  remarkable,  as  I  know  on,"  said 
he. 

Just  then  Grace  came  to  say  that  supper  was  ready. 
Once  seated  at  table,  it  was  astonishing  to  see  the  per- 
fect and  smiling  assurance  with  which  our  hero  con- 
tinued his  addresses  to  Uncle  Lot.  It  sometimes  goes 
a  great  way  towards  making  people  like  us  to  take  it 


14  UNCLE  LOT. 

for  granted  that  they  do  already  ;  and  upon  this  prin- 
ciple James  proceeded.  He  talked,  laughed,  told 
stories,  and  joked  with  the  most  fearless  assurance, 
occasionally  seconding  his  words  by  looking  Uncle 
Lot  in  the  face,  with  a  countenance  so  full  of  good  will 
as  would  have  melted  any  snow-drift  of  prejudices  in 
the  world.  James  had  also  one  natural  accomplish- 
ment, more  courtier-like  than  all  the  diplomacy  in 
Europe,  and  that  was  the  gift  of  feeling  a  real  interest 
for  anybody  in  five  minutes  ;  so  that  if  he  began  to 
please  in  jest,  he  generally  ended  in  earnest.  With 
great  simplicity  of  mind,  he  had  a  natural  tact  for  see- 
ing into  others  and  watched  their  motions  with  the 
same  delight  with  which  a  child  gazes  at  the  wheels 
and  springs  of  a  watch,  to  "  see  what  it  will  do." 

The  rough  exterior  and  latent  kindness  of  Uncle 
Lot  were  quite  a  spirit-stirring  study  ;  and  when  tea 
was  over,  as  he  and  Grace  happened  to  be  standing 
together  in  the  front  door,  he  broke  forth, — 

"  I  do  really  like  your  father,  Grace  !  " 

"  Do  you  ?  "  said  Grace. 

"Yes,  I  do.  He  has  something  in  him  and  I  like 
him  all  the  better  for  having  to  fish  it  out." 

"  Well,  I  hope  you  will  make  him  like  you,"  said 
Grace,  unconsciously ;  and  then  she  stopped,  and 
looked  a  little  ashamed. 

James  was  too  well  bred  to  see  this,  or  look  as  if 
Grace  meant  any  more  than  she  said — a  kind  of  breed- 
ing not  always  attendant  on  more  fashionable  polish — 
so  he  only  answered, — 

"  I  think  I  shall,  Grace,  though  I  doubt  whether  I 
can  get  him  to  own  it." 

"  He  is  the  kindest  man  that  ever  was,"  said  Grace ; 
"  and  he  always  acts  as  if  he  was  ashamed  of  it." 

James  turned  a  little  away,  and  looked  at  the  bright 
evening  sky,  which  was  glowing  like  a  calm  golden 
sea ;  and  over  it  was  the  silver  new  moon,  with  one 
little  star  to  hold  the  candle  for  her.  He  shook  some 
bright  drops  off  from  a  rosebush  near  by,  and  watched 
to  see  them  shine  as  they  fell,  while  Grace  stood  very 
quietly  waiting  for  him  to  speak  again. 

"  Grace,"  said  he,  at  last,  "  I  am  going  to  college  this 
fall." 

"So  you   told  me   yesterday,"   said   Grace.     James 


B  Y  HARR1E T  BEECH ER  STO  WE.  \  5 

stooped  down  over  Grace's  geranium,  and  began  to 
busy  himself  with  pulling  off  all  the  dead  leaves,  re- 
marking in  the  meanwhile. 

•'  And  if  I  do  get  him  to  like  me,  Grace,  will  you  like 
me  too  ?" 

"  I  like  you  now  very  well,"  said  Grace. 

"  Come,  Grace,  you  know  what  I  mean,"  said  James, 
looking  steadfastly  at  the  top  of  the  apple  tree. 

"  Well,  I  wish  then,  you  would  understand  what  I 
mean,  without  my  saying  any  more  about  it,"  said 
Grace. 

"  O,  to  be  sure  I  will !"  said  our  hero,  looking  up 
with  a  very  intelligent  air,  and  so  as  Aunt  Sally  would 
say,  the  matter  was  settled  with  "  no  words  about  it." 

Now  shall  we  narrate  how  our  hero,  as  he  saw  Uncle 
Lot  approaching  the  door,  had  the  impudence  to  take 
out  his  flute,  and  put  the  parts  together,  arranging  and 
adjusting  the  stops  with  great  composure  ? 

"  Uncle  Lot,"  said  he,  looking  up,  "this  is  the  best 
flute  that  ever  I  saw." 

"  I  hate  them  tooting  critturs,"  said  Uncle  Lot  snap- 
pishly. 

"  I  declare,  I  wonder  how  you  can,"  said  James,  "  for 
I  do  think  they  exceed — "  So  saying  he  put  the  flute 
to  his  mouth,  and  ran  up  and  down  a  long  flourish. 
"There!  what  do  you  think  of  that?"  said  he,  looking 
in  Uncle  Lot's  face  with  much  delight. 

Uncle  Lot  turned  and  marched  into  the  house,  but 
soon  paced  to  the  right-about,  and  came  out  again,  for 
James  was  fingering  "  Yankee  Doodle," — that  appro- 
priate national  air  for  the  descendants  of  the  Puritans. 
Uncle  Lot's  patriotism  began  to  bestir  itself ;  and  now, 
if  it  had  been  anything,  as  he  said,  but  "  that  ere  flute" 
— as  it  was,  he  looked  more  than  once  at  James'  fingers. 

"  How  under  the  sun  could  you  learn  to  do  that  ?" 
said  he. 

"  Oh,  its  easy  enough,"  said  James,  proceeding  with 
another  tune ;  and,  having  played  it  through,  he 
stopped  a  moment  to  examine  the  joints  of  his  flute, 
and  in  the  mean  time  addressed  Uncle  Lot.  "You 
can't  think  how  grand  this  is  for  pitching  tunes.  I 
always  pitch  the  tunes  on  Sunday  with  it." 

"  Yes  ;  but  I  don't  think  it's  a  right  and  fit  instru- 
ment for  the  Lord's  house,"  said  Uncle  Lot. 


16  UNCLE  LOT. 

"  Why  not  ?  It  is  only  a  kind  of  a  long  pitchpipe, 
you  see,"  said  James;  "and,  seeing  the  old  one  is 
broken,  and  this  will  answer,  1  don't  see  why  it  is  not 
better  than  nothing," 

"  Why,  yes,  it  may  be  better  than  nothing,"  said 
Uncle  Lot ;  "but  as  1  always  tell  Grace  and  my  wife,  it 
ain't  the  right  kind  of  instrument  after  all ;  it  ain't 
solemn." 

"Solemn!"  said  James,  "  that  is  according  as  you 
work  it.  See  here,  now."  So  saying,  he  struck  up  Old 
Hundred,  and  proceeded  through  it  with  great  per- 
severance. 

"  There,  now  !  "  said  he. 

"  Well,  well,  I  don't  know  but  it  is,"  said  Uncle  Lot ; 
"but,  as  I  said  at  first,  I  don't  like  the  looks  of  it  in 
meetin'." 

"  But  yet  you  really  think  it  is  better  than  nothing," 
said  James,  "for  you  see  I  can't  pitch  my  tunes  with- 
out it." 

"  Maybe  'tis,"  said  Uncle  Lot ;  "but  that  isn't  sayin' 
much." 

This,  however,  was  enough  for  Master  James,  who 
soon  after  departed  with  his  flute  in  his  pocket,  and 
Grace's  last  words  in  his  heart,  soliloquizing  as  he  shut 
the  gate,  "  There,  now,  I  hope  Aunt  Sally  wont  go  to 
praising  me  ;  for,  just  so  sure  as  she  does,  I  shall  have 
it  all  to  do  over  again." 

James  was  right  in  his  apprehension.  Uncle  Lot 
could  be  privately  converted,  but  not  brought  to  open 
confession  ;  and  when,  the  next  morning,  Aunt  Sally 
remarked,  in  the  kindness  of  her  heart, — 

"  Well,  I  always  knew  you  would  come  to  like 
James,"  Uncle  Lot  only  responded. 

"  Who  said  I  did  like  him  ?" 

"  But  I  am  sure  you  seemed  to  like  him  last  night." 

"Why,  I  couldn't  turn  him  out  o'  doors,  could  I  ?  I 
don't  think  nothin'  of  him  but  what  I  always  did." 
But  it  was  to  be  remarked  that  Uncle  Lot  contented 
himself  at  this  time  with  the  mere  general  avowal, 
without  running  it  into  particulars,  as  was  formerly  his 
wont.  It  was  evident  that  the  ice  had  begun  to  melt, 
but  it  might  have  been  a  long  time  in  dissolving,  had 
not  collateral  incidents  assisted. 

It  so  happened   that  about   this  time   George  Gris- 


B  Y  HARRIE  T  BE  EC  HER  S  TO  WE.  1 7 

wold,  the  only  son  before  referred  to,  returned  to  his 
native  village,  after  having  completed  his  theological 
studies  at  a  neighboring  institution.  It  is  interesting 
to  mark  the  gradual  development  of  mind  and  heart, 
from  the  time  that  the  white-headed,  bashful  boy  quiis 
the  country  village  for  college,  to  the  period  when  he 
returns,  a  formed  and  matured  man,  to  notice  how 
gradually  the  rust  of  early  prejudices  begins  to  cleave 
from  him — how  his  opinions,  like  his  handwriting,  pass 
from  the  cramped  and  limited  forms  of  a  country 
school  into  that  confirmed  and  characteristic  style 
which  is  to  mark  the  man  for  life.  In  George  this 
change  was  remarkably  striking.  He  was  endowed 
by  nature  with  uncommon  acuteness  of  feeling  and 
fondness  for  reflection — qualities  as  likely  as  any  to 
render  a  child  backward  and  uninteresting  in  early 
life. 

When  he  lef;  Newbury  for  college,  he  was  a  taciturn 
and  apparently  phlegmatic  boy,  only  evincing  sensi- 
bility by  blushing  and  looking  particularly  stupified 
whenever  anybody  spoke  to  him.  Vacation  after  vaca- 
tion passed,  and  he  returned  more  and  more  an  altered 
being  ;  and  he  who  once  shrunk  from  the  eye  of  the 
deacon,  and  was  ready  to  sink  if  he  met  the  minister, 
now  moved  about  among  the  dignitaries  of  the  place 
with  all  the  composure  of  a  superior  being.  It  is  only 
to  be  regretted  that,  while  the  mind  improved,  the 
physical  energies  declined,  and  that  every  visit  to  his 
home  found  him  paler,  thinner,  and  less  prepared  in 
body  for  the  sacred  profession  to  which  he  had  devoted 
himself.  But  now  he  was  returned  a  minister — a  real 
minister,  with  a  right  to  stand  in  the  pulpit  and  preach  ; 
and  what  a  joy  and  glory  to  Aunt  Sally  and  to  Uncle 
Lot,  if  he  were  not  ashamed  to  own  it ! 

The  first  Sunday  after  he  came,  it  was  known  far  and 
near  that  George  Griswold  was  to  preach;  and  never 
was  a  more  ready  and  expectant  audience. 

As  the  time  for  reading  the  first  psalm  approached, 
you  might  see  the  white-headed  men  turning  their  faces 
attentively  towards  the  pulpet ;  the  anxious  and  expect- 
ant old  women,  with  their  little  black  bonnets  bent 
forward  to  see  him  rise.  There  were  the  children 
looking  because  every  body  else  looked ;  there  was 
Uncle  Lot  in  the  front  pew,  his  face  considerably 

2 


1 8  UNCLE  LOT. 

adjusted ;  there  was  Aunt  Sally,  seeming  as  pleased 
as  a  mother  could  seem  ;  and  Miss  Grace  lifting  her 
sweet  face  to  her  brother,  like  a  flower  to  the  sun  ; 
there  was  our  friend  James  in  the  front  gallery,  his 
joyous  countenance  a  little  touched  with  sobriety  and 
expectation  ;  in  short,  a  more  embarrassingly  attentive 
audience  never  greeted  the  first  efforts  of  a  young  min- 
ister. Under  these  circumstances  there  was  something 
touching  in  the  fervent  self-forgttfulness  which  charac- 
terized the  first  exercises  of  the  morning,  something 
which  moved  every  one  in  the  house. 

The  devout  poetry  of  his  prayer,  rich  with  the  Orien- 
talism of  Scripture,  and  eloquent  with  the  expression 
of  strong  yet  chastened  emotion,  breathed  over  his 
audience  like  music  hushing  every  one  to  silence,  and 
beguiling  every  one  to  feeling.  In  the  sermon,  there 
was  the  strong  intellectual  nerve,  the  constant  occur- 
rence of  argument  and  statement,  which  distinguishes 
a  New  England  discourse  ;  but  it  was  touched  with 
life  by  the  intense,  yet  half  subdued  feeling  with  which 
he  seemed  to  utter  it.  Like  the  rays  of  the  sun,  it 
enlightened  and  melted  at  the  same  moment. 

The  strong  peculiarities  of  New  England  doctrine, 
involving  as  they  do,  all  the  hidden  machinery  of  mind, 
all  the  mystery  of  its  divine  relations  and  future 
progression,  and  all  the  tremendous  uncertainties  of  its 
eternal  good  or  ill,  seemed  to  have  dwelt  in  his  mind, 
to  have  burned  in  his  thoughts,  to  have  wrestled  with 
his  powers,  and  they  gave  to  his  manner  the  fervency 
almost  of  another  world  ;  while  the  exceeding  paleness 
of  his  countenance,  and  a  tremulousness  of  voice  that 
seemed  to  spring  from  bodily  weakness,  touched  the 
strong  workings  of  his  mind  with  a  pathetic  interest,  as 
if  the  being  so  early  absorbed  in  another  world  could 
not  be  long  for  this. 

When  the  services  were  over  the  congregation 
dispersed  with  the  air  of  people  who  had/^//1  rather 
than  heard,  and  all  the  criticism  that  followed  was 
similar  to  that  of  old  Deacon  Hart — an  upright,  shrewd 
man — who,  as  he  lingered  a  moment  at  the  church  doors 
turned  and  gazed  with  unwonted  feeling  at  the  youn^ 
preacher. 

"  He's  a  blessed  cretur !  "  said  he,  the  tears  actually 
making  their  way  to  his  eyes ;  "  I  haint  been  so  near 


B  Y  HARRIS  T  BEECHER  STO  WE.  1 9 

heaven  this  many  a  day.     He's  a  blessed  cretur  of  the 
Lord  ;  that's  my  mind  about  him  !  " 

As  for  our  friend  James,  he  was  at  first  sobered,  then 
deeply  moved,  and  at  last  wholly  absorbed  by  the 
discourse,  and  it  was  only  when  meeting  was  over  that 
he  began  to  think  where  he  really  was. 

With  all  his  versatile  activity,  James  had  a  greater 
depth  of  mental  capacity  than  he  was  himself  aware  of, 
and  he  began  to  feel  a  sort  of  electric  affinity  for  the 
mind  that  had  touched  him  in  a  way  so  new;  and 
when  he  saw  the  mild  minister  standing  at  the  foot  of 
the  pulpit  stairs,  he  made  directly  towards  him. 

"  I  do  want  to  hear  more  from  you,"  said  he,  with  a 
face  full  of  earnestness  ;  "  may  I  walk  home  with  you  ? " 

"  It  is  a  long  and  warm  walk,"  said  George,  smiling. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  care  for  that,  if  it  does  not  trouble  you" 
said  James  ;  and  leave  being  gained,  you  might  have 
seen  them  slowly  passing  along  under  the  trees,  James 
pouring  forth  all  the  floods  of  inquiry  which  the  sudden 
impulse  of  his  mind  had  brought  out,  and  supplying 
his  guide  with  more  questions  and  problems  for  solution 
than  he  could  have  gone  through  with  in  a  month. 

"  I  cannot  answer  all  your  questions  now,"  said  he, 
as  they  stopped  at  Uncle  Lot's  gate. 

"  Well,  then,  when  will  you  ?  "  said  James  eagerly. 
"  Let  me  come  home  with  you  to-night  ? " 

The  minister  smiled  assent,  and  James  departed  so 
full  of  new  thoughts,  that  he  passed  Grace  without  even 
seeing  her.  From  that  time  a  friendship  commenced 
between  the  two,  which  was  a  beautiful  illustration  of 
the  affinities  of  opposites.  It  was  like  a  friendship 
between  morning  and  evening,  all  freshness  and  sun- 
shine on  one  side,  and  all  gentleness  and  peace  on  the 
other. 

The  young  minister,  worn  by  long-continued  ill 
health,  by  the  fervency  of  his  own  feelings,  and  the 
gravity  of  his  own  reasonings,  found  pleasure  in  the 
healthful  buoyancy  of  a  youthful,  unexhausted  mind, 
while  James  felt  himself  sobered  and  made  better  by 
the  moonlight  tranquillity  of  his  friend.  It  is  one 
mark  of  a  superior  mind  to  understand  and  be  influenced 
by  the  superiority  of  others,  and  this  was  the  case  with 
James.  The  ascendancy  which  his  new  friend  acquired 
over  him  was  unlimited,  and  did  more  in  a  month 


20  UNCLE  LOT. 

towards  consolidating  and  developing  his  character  than 
all  the  four  years  course  of  a  college.  Our  religious 
habits  are  likely  always  to  retain  the  impression  of  the 
first  seal  which  stamped  them,  and  in  this  case  it  was  a 
peculiarly  happy  one.  The  calmness,  the  settled  pur- 
pose, the  mild  devotion  of  his  friend,  formed  a  just  alloy 
to  the  energetic  and  reckless  buoyancy  of  James' 
character,  and  awakened  in  him  a  set  of  feelings  with- 
out which  the  most  vigorous  mind  must  be  incomplete. 

The  effect  of  the  ministrations  of  the  young  pastor, 
in  awakening  attention  to  the  subjects  of  his  calling  in 
the  village  was  marked,  and  of  a  kind  which  brought 
pleasure  to  his  own  heart.  But,  like  all  other  excite- 
ment, it  tends  to  exhaustion,  and  it  was  not  long  before 
he  sensibly  felt  the  decline  of  the  powers  of  life. 

To  the  best  regulated  mind  there  is  something  bitter 
in  the  relinquishment  of  projects  for  which  we  have 
been  long  and  laboriously  preparing,  and  there  is 
something  far  more  bitter  in  crossing  the  long-cherished 
expectations  of  friends.  All  this  George  felt.  He 
could  not  bear  to  look  on  his  mother,  hanging  on  his 
words  and  following  his  steps  with  eyes  of  almost 
childish  delight — on  his  singular  father,  whose  whole 
earthly  ambition  was  bound  up  in  his  success,  and  think 
how  soon  the  "  candle  of  their  old  age  "  must  be  put  out. 

When  he  returned  from  a  successful  effort,  it  was 
painful  to  see  the  old  man,  so  evidently  delighted,  and 
so  anxious  to  conceal  his  triumph,  as  he  would  seat 
himself  in  his  chair,  and  begin  with  "  George,  that  'are 
doctrine  is  rather  of  a  puzzler ;  but  you  seem  to  think 
you've  got  the  run  on't.  I  should  re'ly  like  to  know 
what  business  you  have  to  think  you  know  better  than 
other  folks  about  it,"  and,  though  he  would  cavil  most 
courageously  at  all  George's  explanations,  yet  you 
might  perceive,  through  all,  that  he  was  inly  uplifted  to 
hear  how  his  boy  could  talk. 

If  George  was  engaged  in  argument  with  any  one 
else,  he  would  sit  by  with  his  head  bowed  down,  look- 
ing out  from  under  his  shaggy  eyebrows  with  a  shame- 
faced satisfaction  very  unusual  with  him.  Expressions 
of  affection  from  the  naturally  gentle  are  not  half  so 
touching  as  those  which  are  forced  out  from  the  hard- 
favored,  and  severe  ;  and  George  was  affected,  even 


B  Y  HAKRIE  T  BE  EC  HER  STO  WE.  2 1 

to  pain,  by  the  evident  pride  and  regard  of  his 
father. 

"He  never  said  so  much  to  anybody  before,"  thought 
he,  "  and  what  will  he  do  if  I  die  ?  " 

In  such  thoughts  as  these  Grace  found  her  brother 
engaged  one  still  autumn  morning,  as  he  stood  leaning 
against  the  garden  fence. 

"  What  are  you  solemnizing  here  for,  this  bright  day, 
brother  George  ?  "  said  she,  as  she  bounded  down  the 
alley. 

The  young  man  turned  and  looked  on  her  happy  face 
with  a  sort  of  twilight  smile. 

"  How  happy  you  are,  Grace  !  "  said  he. 

"  To  be  sure  I  am  ;  and  you  ought  to  be,  too,  because 
you  are  better." 

"  I  am  happy,  Grace — that  is,  I  hope  I  shall  be." 

"  You  are  sick,  I  know  you  are,"  said  Grace  ;  "  you 
look  worn  out.  Oh,  I  wish  your  heart  would  spring 
once  as  mine  does." 

"  I  am  not  well,  dear  Grace,  and  I  fear  I  never  shall 
be,"  said  he,  turning  away  and  fixing  his  eyes  on  the 
fading  trees  opposite. 

"Oh,  George!  dear  George,  don't,  don't  say  that, 
you'll  break  all  our  hearts,"  said  Grace,  with  tears  in 
her  own  eyes. 

"  Yes,  but  it  is  true,  sister  :  I  do  not  feel  it  on  my 
own  account  so  much  as —  However,"  he  added,  "  it 
will  all  be  the  same  in  heaven." 

It  was  but  a  week  after  this  that  a  violent  cold 
hastened  the  progress  of  debility  into  a  confirmed  mal- 
ady. He  sunk  very  fast.  Aunt  Sally,  with  the  self- 
deceit  of  a  fond  and  cheerful  heart,  thought  every  day 
that  "  he  would  be  better,"  and  Uncle  Lot  resisted 
conviction  with  all  the  obstinate  pertinacity  of  his  char- 
acter, while  the  sick  man  felt  that  he  had  not  the  heart 
to  undeceive  them. 

James  was  now  at  the  house  every  day,  exhausting 
all  his  energy  and  invention  in  the  case  of  his  friend  ; 
and  any  one  who  had  seen  him  in  his  hours  of  reckless- 
ness and  glee  could  scarcely  recognize  him,  as  the 
being  whose  step  was  so  careful,  whose  eye  so  watch- 
ful, whose  voice  and  touch  were  so  gentle,  as  he  moved 
around  the  sick  bed.  But  the  same  quickness  which 


22  UNCLE  LOT. 

makes  a  mind  buoyant  in  gladness,  often  makes  it 
gentlest  and  most  sympathetic  in  sorrow. 

It  was  now  nearly  morning  in  the  sick  room.  George 
had  been  restless  and  feverish  all  night ;  but  towards 
day  he  fell  into  a  slight  slumber,  and  James  sat  by  his 
side,  almost  holding  his  breath  lest  he  should  waken 
him.  It  was  yet  dusk,  but  the  sky  was  brightening 
with  a  solemn  glow,  and  the  stars  were  beginning  to 
disappear,  all,  save  the  bright  and  morning  one,  which, 
standing  alone  in  the  east,  looked  tenderly  through  the 
casement,  like  the  eye  of  our  heavenly  Father,  watch- 
ing over  us  when  all  earthly  friendships  are  fad- 
ing. 

George  awoke  with  a  placid  expression  of  counte- 
nance, and  fixing  his  eyes  on  the  brightening  sky,  mur- 
mured faintly, — 

"  The  sweet,  immortal  morning  sheds 
Its  blushes  round  the  spheres." 

A  moment  after,  a  shade  passed  over  his  face ;  he 
pressed  his  fingers  over  his  eyes,  and  the  tears  dropped 
silently  on  his  pillow. 

"George  !  dear  George  !  "  said  James,  bending  over 
him. 

"  It's  my  friends — it's  my  father — my  mother,"  said 
he  faintly. 

"  Jesus  Christ  will  watch  over  them,"  said  James, 
soothingly. 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  know  he  will ;  for  he  loved  his  own  which 
were  in  the  world  ;  he  loved  them  unto  the  end.  But 
I  am  dying — and  before  I  have  done  any  good." 

"Oh,  do  not  say  so,"  said  James;  "think,  think 
what  you  have  done,  if  only  for  me.  God  bless  you  for 
it !  God  will  bless  you  for  it ;  it  will  follow  you  to 
heaven;  it  will  bring  me  there.  Yes,  I  will  do  as  you 
have  taught  me.  I  will  give  my  life,  rny  soul,  my  whole 
strength  to  it ;  and  then  you  will  not  have  lived  in 
vain." 

George  smiled,  and  looked  upward  ;  "  his  face  was 
as  that  of  an  angel ;  "  and  James,  in  his  warmth,  con- 
tinued,— 

"  It  is  not  I  alone  who  can  say  this  ;  we  all  bless 
you  ;  every  one  in  this  place  blesses  you  ;  you  will  be 


B  Y  HARRIE  T  BEECHER  STO  WE.  2 3 

had  in  everlasting  remembrance  by  some  hearts  here,  I 
know." 

"  Bless  God  !  "  said  George. 

"We  do,"  said  James.  4i  I  bless  him  that  I  ever 
knew  you  ;  we  all  bless  him,  and  we  love  you,  and  shall 
forever." 

The  glow  that  had  kindled  over  the  pale  face  of  the 
invalid  again  faded  as  he  said, — 

"  But,  James,  I  must,  I  ought  to  tell  my  father  and 
mother  ;  I  ought  to,  and  how  can  I  ?  " 

At  that  moment  the  door  opened,  and  Uncle  Lot 
made  his  appearance.  He  seemed  struck  with  the 
paleness  of  George's  face  ;  and  coming  to  the  side  of  the 
bed,  he  felt  his  pulse,  and  laid  his  hand  anxiously  on 
his  forehead,  and  clearing  his  voice  several  times,  in- 
quired "  if  he  didn't  feel  a  little  better." 

"  No,  father,  said  George  ;  then  taking  his  hand,  he 
looked  anxiously  in  his  face,  and  seemed  to  hesitate  a 
moment.  "Father,"  'he  began,  "you  know  that  we 
ought  to  submit  to  God." 

There  was  something  in  his  expression  at  this  moment 
which  flashed  the  truth  into  the  old  man's  mind.  He 
dropped  his  son's  hand  with  an  exclamation  of  agony, 
and  turning  quickly,  left  the  room. 

"  Father  !  father !  "  said  Grace,  trying  to  rouse  him, 
as  he  stood  with  his  arms  folded  by  the  kitchen  win- 
dow. 

"  Get  away,  child  !  "  said  he,  roughly. 

"  Father,  mother  says  breakfast  is  ready." 

"  I  don't  want  any  breakfast,"  said  he,  turning  short 
about.  "  Sally,  what  are  you  fixing  in  that  'ere  por- 
ringer ? " 

'•  Oh,  it's  only  a  little  tea  for  George ;  't  will  comfort 
him  up,  and  make  him  feel  better,  poor  fellow." 

"  You  won't  make  him  feel  better — he's  gone,"  said 
Uncle  Lot,  hoarsely. 

"  Oh,  dear  heart,  no,"  said  Aunt  Sally. 

"  Be  still  a'  contradicting  me ;  I  won't  be  contra- 
dicted all  the  time  by  nobody.  The  short  of  the  case 
is,  that  George  is  goin'  to  die  just  as  we've  got  him  ready 
to  be  a  minister  and  all ;  and  I  wish  to  pity  I  was  in 
my  grave  myself,  and  so — "  said  Uncle  Lot,  as  he 
plunged  out  of  the  door,  and  shut  it  after  him. 

It  is  well  for  man  that  there  is  one  Being  who  sees 


24  UNCLrf  &OT. 

the  suffering  heart  as  it  is,  and  not  as  it  manifests  itself 
through  the  repellances  of  outward  infirmity,  and  who, 
perhaps,  feels  more  for  the  stern  and  wayward  than 
for  those  whose  gentler  feelings  win  for  them  human 
sympathy.  With  all  his  singularities,  there  was  in  the 
heart  of  Uncle  Lot  a  depth  of  religious  sincerity  ;  but 
there  are  few  characters  where  religion  does  anything 
more  than  struggle  with  natural  defect,  and  modify 
what  would  else  be  far  worse.  In  this  hour  of  trial,  all 
the  native  obstinacy  and  pertinacity  of  the  old  man's 
character  rose,  and  while  he  felt  the  necessity  of  sub- 
mission, it  seemed  impossible  to  submit;  and  thus, 
reproaching  himself,  struggling  in  vain  to  repress  the 
murmurs  of  nature,  repulsing  from  him  all  external 
sympathy,  his  mind  was  "  tempest-tossed,  and  not  com- 
forted." 

It  was  on  the  still  afternoon  of  the  following  Sab- 
bath that  he  was  sent  for,  in  haste,  to  the  chamber  of 
his  son.  He  entered,  and  saw  that  the  hour  was  come. 
The  family  were  all  there.  Grace  and  James,  side  by 
side,  bent  over  the  dying  one,  and  his  mother  sat  afar 
off,  with  her  face  hid  in  her  apron,  "that  she  might  not 
see  the  death  of  the  child."  The  aged  minister  was 
there,  and  the  Bible  lay  open  before  him.  The  father 
walked  to  the  side  of  the  bed.  He  stood  still,  and 
gazed  on  the  face  now  brightening  with  "  life  and  im- 
mortality. "  The  son  lifted  up  his  eyes ;  he  saw  his 
father,  smiled,  and  put  out  his  hand.  "I  am  glad  you 
are  come,"  said  he.  "  O  George,  to  the  pity,  don't ! 
don't  smile  on  me  so  !  I  know  what  is  coming ;  I  have 
tried,  and  tried,  and  I  can't,  I  can't  have  it  so  "  and  his 
frame  shook,  and  he  sobbed  audibly.  The  room  was 
still  as  death ;  there  was  none  that  seemed  able  to 
comfort  him.  At  last  the  son  repeated,  in  a  sweet,  but 
interrupted  voice,  those  words  of  man's  best  Friend  : 
"  Let  not  your  heart  be  troubled ;  in  my  Father's  house 
are  many  mansions.  " 

"  Yes  ;  but  I  can't  help  being  troubled  ;  I  suppose 
the  Lord's  will  must  be  done,  but  it'll  £;7/me. " 

"  O  Father,  don't,  don't  break  my  heart,"  said  the 
son,  much  agitated.  "I  shall  see  you  again  in  heaven, 
and  you  shall  see  me  again  ;  and  then  '  your  heart  shall 
rejoice,  and  your  joy  no  man  take th  from  you." 


B  Y  HARRIE  T  BEECHER  STO  WE.  2  5 

"  I  never  shall  get  to  heaven  if  I  feel  as  I  do  now," 
said  the  old  man.  "  I  cannot  have  it  so." 

The  mild  face  of  the  sufferer  was  downcast.  "  I 
wish  he  saw  all  that  /  do,"  said  he,  in  a  low  voice. 
Then  looking  towards  the  minister,  he  articulated, 
"  Pray  for  us." 

They  knelt  in  prayer.  It  was  soothing,  as  real 
prayer  always  must  be ;  and  when  they  rose,  every  one 
seemed  more  calm.  But  the  sufferer  was  exhausted  ; 
his  countenance  was  changed ;  he  looked  on  his 
friends  ;  there  was  a  faint  whisper,  "  Peace  I  leave  with 
you,"  and  he  was  in  heaven. 

We  need  not  dwell  on  what  followed.  The  seed 
sown  by  the  righteous  often  blossoms  over  their 
grave  ;  and  so  it  was  with  this  good  man.  The  words 
of  peace  which  he  spoke  unto  his  friends  while  he  was 
yet  with  them  came  into  remembrance  after  he  was 
gone ;  and  though  he  was  laid  in  the  grave  with  many 
tears,  yet  it  was  with  softened  and  submissive  hearts. 

"  The  Lord  bless  him, "  said  Uncle  Lot,  as  he  and 
James  were  standing,  last  of  all,  over  the  grave.  "  I 
believe  my  heart  is  gone  to  heaven  with  him  ;  and  I 
think  the  Lord  really  did  know  what  was  best,  after  all." 

Our  friend  James  seemed  now  to  become  the  sup- 
port of  the  family ;  and  the  bereaved  old  man  uncon- 
sciously began  to  transfer  to  him  the  affections  that  had 
been  left  vacant. — "  James,"  said  he  to  him  one  day, 
"  I  suppose  you  know  that  you  are  about  the  same  to 
me  as  a  son." 

"  I  hope  so,"  said  James,  kindly. 

"Well,  well,  you'll  go  to  college  next  week,  and 
none  o'  y'r  keeping  school  to  get  along.  I've  got 
enough  to  bring  you  safe  out — that  is,  if  you'll  be 
careful  and  stiddy" 

James  knew  the  heart  too  well  to  refuse  a  favor  in 
which  the  poor  old  man's  mind  was  comforting  itself. 
He  had  the  self-command  to  abstain  from  any  extraor- 
dinary expressions  of  gratitude,  but  took  it  kindly,  as 
a  matter  of  course. 

"  Dear  Grace,"  said  he  to  her,  the  last  evening  be- 
fore he  left  home,  "  I  am  changed  ;  we  both  are  altered 
since  we  first  knew  each  other ;  and  now  I  am  going 
to  be  gone  a  long  time,  but  I  am  sure — "  He  stopped 
to  arrange  his  thoughts.  "  Yes,  you  may  be  sure  of 


26  UNCLE  LOT. 

all  those  things  you  wish  to  say,    and  cannot,"    said 
Grace. 

"  Thank  you,"  said  James ;  then  looking  thought- 
fully, he  added,  "God  help  me.  I  believe  I  have  mind 
enough  to  be  what  I  mean  to  ;  but  whatever  I  am  or 
have  shall  be  given  to  God  and  my  fellow  men  ;  and 
then,  Grace,  your  brother  in  heaven  will  rejoice  over 
me." 

"  I  believe  he  does  now,"  said  Grace.  "  God  bless 
you,  James  ;  I  don't  know  what  would  have  become  of 
us  if  you  had  not  been  here.  Yes,  you  will  live  to  be 
like  him,  and  to  do  even  more  good,"  she  added,  her 
face  brightening  as  she  spoke,  till  James  thought  she 
really  must  be  right. 

******* 

It  was  five  years  after  this  that  James  was  spoken  of 
as  an  eloquent  and  successful  minister  in  the  state  of 
C.,  and  was  settled  in  one  of  its  most  thriving  villages. 
Late  one  Autumn  evening,  a  tall,  bony,  hard-favored 
man  was  observed  making  his  way  into  the  outskirts 
of  the  place. 

"  Halloa,  there  ;  "  he  called  to  a  man  over  the  other 
side  of  the  fence  ;  "  what  town  is  this  'ere  ?  " 

"  It's  Farmington,  sir." 

"  Well,  I  want  to  know  if  you  know  anything  of  a  boy 
of  mine  that  lives  here  ? " 

"  A  boy  of  yours  ?     Who  ?  " 

"Why,  I've  got  a  boy  here,  that's  livin'  on  the  town, 
and  I  thought  I'd  jest  look  him  up." 

"  I  don't  know  any  boy  that  is  living  on  the  town. 
What's  his  name  ?  " 

"  Why,"  said  the  old  man,  pushing  his  hat  off  from 
his  forehead,  "  I  believe  they  call  him  James  Benton." 

"  James  Benton  !  Why,  that  is  our  minister's  name." 

"  O  wal,  I  believe  he  is  the  minister,  come  to  think 
on't.  He's  a  boy  o'  mine,  though.  Where  does  he 
live  ? " 

"  In  that  white  house  that  you  see  set  back  from  the 
road  there,  with  all  those  trees  round  it." 

At  this  instant  a  tall,  manly-looking  person  ap- 
proached from  behind.  Have  we  not  seen  that  face 
before  ?  It  is  a  touch  graver  than  of  old,  and  its  lines 
have  a  more  thoughtful  significance j  but  all  the  vivac- 


B Y  HARRIE  T  BEECHER  STO  WE.  2J 

ity  of  James  Benton  sparkles  in  that  quick  smile  as 
his  eye  falls  on  the  old  man. 

I  thought  you  could  not  keep  away  from  us  long," 
said  he,  with  the  prompt  cheerfulness  of  his  boyhood, 
and  laying  hold  of  both  of  Uncle  Lot's  hands. 

They  approached  the  gate  ;  a  bright  face  glances 
past  the  window,  and  in  a  moment  Grace  is  at  the 
door. 

"  Father  !  dear  father  !  " 

"You'd  better  make  believe  be  so  glad,"  said 
Uncle  Lot,  his  eyes  glistening  as  he  spoke. 

"Come,  come,  father,  I  have  authority  in  these 
days,"  said  Grace,  drawing  him  towards  the  house;  "so 
no  disrespectful  speeches  ;  away  with  your  hat  and  coat, 
and  sit  down  in  this  great  chair." 

"So  ho!  Miss  Grace,"  said  Uncle  Lot,  "you  are  at 
your  old  tricks,  ordering  round  as  usual.  Well,  if  I 
must,  I  must ;  "  so  down  he  sat. 

"  Father,"  said  Grace,  as  he  was  leaving  them  after  a 
few  days'  stay,  "  it's  Thanksgiving  day  next  month, 
and  you  and  mother  must  come  and  stay  with  us." 

Accordingly,  the  following  month  found  Aunt  Sally 
and  Uncle  Lot  by  the  minister's  fireside,  delighted 
witnesses  of  the  Thanksgiving  presents  which  a  willing 
people  were  pouring  in  ;  and  the  next  day  they  had 
once  more  the  pleasure  of  seeing  a  son  of  theirs  in  the 
sacred  desk,  and  hearing  a  sermon  that  everybody  said 
was  "  the  best  that  he  ever  preached  ; "  and  it  is  to  be 
remarked,  that  this  was  the  standing  commentary  on 
all  James'  discourses,  so  that  it  was  evident  he  was 
going  on  unto  perfection. 

"  There's  a  great  deal  that's  worth  having  in  this 
'ere  life  after  all,"  said  Uncle  Lot,  as  he  sat  by  the 
coals  of  the  bright  evening  fire  of  that  day;  "that  is, 
if  we'd  only  take  it  when  the  Lord  lays  it  in  our 
way." 

"  Yes,"  said  James  ;  "  and  let  us  only  take  it  as  we 
should,  and  this  life  will  be  cheerfulness,  and  the  next 
fulness  of  joy." 


OLD    MADAME, 


BY 


HARRIET  PRESCOTT  SPOFFORD. 


HARRIET  PRESCOTT  SPOFFORD. 


MRS.  SPOFFORD,  whose  early  fame  came  to  her 
while  Miss  Prescott,  was  born  in  Calais,  Me.,  in  1835. 
She  was  the  eldest  daughter  of  Joseph  N.  Prescott. 
When  Harriet  was  still  very  young,  the  family  removed 
to  Newburyport,  Mass.  In  this  little  city  at  the 
mouth  of  the  Merrimac,  she  received  an  excellent  edu- 
cation at  the  Putnam  Free  School — an  institution  with 
a  modest  name  but  of  academic  standing,  and  which 
had  the  reputation  of  turning  out  many  accomplished 
scholars,  among  whom  Harriet  Prescott  ranked  as  one 
of  the  very  brightest ;  later  she  attended  for  two  years 
the  Pinkerton  Academy  in  Derry,  N.  H.  At  this  time 
the  city  of  her  home,  Newburyport,  contained  an  un- 
usual number  of  both  men  and  women  of  fine  intel- 
lectual endowment,  and  into  this  circle  of  stimula- 
tion, Harriet  came  as  a  welcome  member.  Just  at 
this  period,  Thomas  Wentworth  Higginson  was  a  resi- 
dent of  the  place  and  pastor  of  the  Unitarian  Church ; 
he  took  great  interest  in  Miss  Prescott,  and  by  many  a 
friendly  counsel  and  suggestion  helped  her  on  the  way 
she  has  since  so  brilliantly  trod.  Here  she  achieved 
her  first  local  success,  as  the  competitor  for  a  literary 
prize.  Having  graduated  at  the  early  age  of  seven 
teen,  she  found  herself  at  once  in  the  presence  of  a 
family  misfortune,  which,  as  the  eldest  of  the  family, 
cast  almost  the  entire  responsibility  of  its  support  upon 
her  young  shoulders.  The  father  had  been  stricken 
with  paralysis,  and  her  mother  became  a  confirmed 
invalid.  Nothing  daunted  by  this  serious  outlook  she 
set  bravely  to  work  to  make  her  literary  talent  of  prac- 
tical use.  She  courageously  besieged  the  story  paper 
offices  of  Boston  with  sketches  and  novelettes.  The 
competition  was  not  so  great  then  as  it  has  since  be- 
come, and  it  was  not  so  difficult  to  get  a  hearing  ;  but 
much  labor  was  exacted  for  diminutive  pay,  and  it 

33 


34  HA  KK1E  T  P RES  CO  TT  SPOFFORD. 

required  almost  incessant  work  to  procure  sufficient 
funds  to  meet  the  most  necessary  expenses  of  herself 
and  family.  She  sometimes  wrote  for  fifteen  hours  a 
day,  and  continued  at  approximately  hard  work  for 
many  years. 

Her  wide  reputation  was  acquired  almost  at  a  stroke. 
In  1859  she  sent  to  the  Atlantic  Monthly  a  story  en- 
titled, "In  a  Cellar."  James  Russell  Lowell  was  at 
that  time  editor  of  the  Atlantic,  and  at  first  declined 
to  believe  that  any  young  lady  could  have  written 
such  a  brilliant  and  characteristic  description  of 
Bohemian  Parisian  life ;  he  insisted  that  it  must  be 
a  translation  from  the  French.  Convinced  at  last  of 
its  true  authorship,  it  was  published,  and  thencefor- 
ward Miss  Prescott  was  always  a  welcome  contributor 
to  its  pages ;  and  at  that  time  the  endorsement  of  the 
Atlantic  opened  all  other  magazine  offices  to  its 
writers.  Her  first  novel,  "  Sir  Rohan's  Ghost,"  pub- 
lished in  1859  in  Boston,  was  a  very  striking  work  and 
for  skilful  plot  and  effective  dramatic  denouement  has 
never  been  exceeded  in  any  of  her  later  works,  though 
a  certain  crudeness  of  thought  and  expression  appar- 
ent in  that,  has  been  entirely  eliminated  by  increased 
age  and  experience.  This  book  was  reviewed  at  some 
length  in  the  Crayon,  an  art  journal  then  pub- 
lished in  New  York  City,  and  an  admitted  authority  in 
literary  criticism. 

One  of  the  most  rare  gifts  of  Miss  Prescott's  genius 
was  her  extraordinary  affluence  of  language,  which 
never  appeared  to  be  strained  or  affected  any  more 
than  the  gorgeous  tints  of  a  tropical  plant.  In  1865 
Miss  Prescott  was  married  to  Mr.  Richard  S.  Spofford 
of  Newburyport,  a  lawyer,  and  son  of  Dr.  R.  S.  Spof- 
ford, the  most  eminent  physician  of  Essex  County ; 
he  was  also  cousin  to  the  popular  and  esteemed  libra- 
rian of  the  Congressional  library  in  Washington,  D.  C. 

This  union  proved  a  particularly  happy  one,  though 
childless,  until  the  decease  of  Mr.  Spofford  during  the 
present  (1888)  year. 

Mrs.  Spofford's  later  works  were,  "The  Amber  Gods 
and  Other  Stories,"  published  in  Boston,  1863  ; 
"  Azarim,"  in  1864;  "New  England  Legends,"  in  1871  ; 
"The  Thief  in  the  Night,"  in  1872  ;  "Art  Decoration 
Applied  to  Furniture,"  published  in  New  York  in 


HARRIE  T  FRESCO  TT  SPOFFORD.  3  $ 

1881  ;  "Marquis  of  Carabas,"  Boston,  1872  ;  "Hester 
Stanley  at  St.  Mark's,"  1883  ;  "The  Servant  Girl  Ques- 
tion," 1884;  and  "  Ballads  about  Authors,"  1888. 

Mrs.  Spofford's  prolific  prose  pen  does  not  cause 
us  to  forget  the  many  beautiful  poems  and  ballads 
which  she  has  produced,  and  best  of  all  they  seem  to 
be  written  because  they  had  first  been  sung  in  her 
heart,  and  had  to  burst  forth  into  words.  There  is  no 
outward  sign  of  artificiality  about  them. 

For  many  years  Mrs.  Spofford  has  resided  at  Deer 
Island — a  small  island  in  the  river  Merrimac,  in  the 
northerly  suburb  of  Newburyport;  the  situation  is  very 
romantic,  and  just  the  place  to  develop  the  poetical 
and  imaginative  nature.  The  entire  island  was  pur- 
chased for  a  permanent  home,  though  Mrs.  Spofford 
has  spent  many  of  her  winters,  or  a  portion  of  them, 
in  Boston  and  Washington. 


OLD  MADAME. 


"  Miss  BARBARA  !  Barbara,  honey  !  Where's  this 
you're  hiding  at  ?  "  cried  old  Phillis,  tying  her  bandanna 
head-gear  in  a  more  flamboyant  knot  over  her  gray 
hair  and  brown  face.  "  Where's  this  you're  hiding  at  ? 
The  Old  Madame's  after  you." 

And  in  answer  to  the  summons,  a  girl  clad  in  home- 
spun, but  with  every  line  of  her  lithe  figure  the  lines, 
one  might  fancy,  of  a  wood-and  water  nymph's,  came 
slowly  up  from  the  shore  and  the  fishing  smacks,  with 
a  young  fisherman  beside  her. 

Down  on  the  margin,  the  men  were  hauling  a  seine 
and  singing  as  they  hauled ;  a  droger  was  dropping  its 
dark  sails ;  barefooted  urchins  were  wading  in  the 
breaking  roller  where  the  boat  that  the  men  were 
launching  dipped  up  and  down  ;  women  walked  with 
baskets  poised  lightly  on  their  heads,  calling  gaily  to 
one  another;  sands  were  sparkling,  sails  were  glanc- 
ing, winds  were  blowing,  waves  were  curling,  voices 
were  singing  and  laughing, — it  was  all  the  scene  of  a 
happy,  sunshiny,  summer  morning  in  the  little  fishing- 
hamlet  of  an  island  off  the  coast. 

The  girl  and  her  companion  wound  up  the  stony 
path,  passing  Phillis,  and  paused  before  a  low  stone 
house  that  seemed  o.nly  a  big  bowlder  itself,  in  whose 
narrow,  open  hallway,  stretching  from  door  to  door, 
leaned  a  stately  old  woman*  on  her  staff, — a  back- 
ground of  the  sea  rising  behind  her. 

"  Did  you  wish  for  Barbara,  Old  Madame  ?  "  asked 
the  fisherman,  as  superb  a  piece  of  rude  youth  and 
strength  as  any  young  Viking. 

She  fixed  him  with  her  glance  an  instant. 

"  And  you  are  his  grandson  ?  "  said  the  old  woman. 
"  You  are  called  by  his  name — the  fourth  of  the  name 
— Ben  Benvoisie  ?  I  am  not  dreaming  ?  You  are, 
sure  of  it  ?  " 

37 


38  OLD  MADAME. 

As  sure  as  that  you  are  called  Old  Madame,"  he 
replied,  with  a  grave  pride  of  self-respect,  and  an  air 
of  something  solemn  in  his  joy,  as  if  he  had  but  just 
turned  from  looking  on  death  to  embrace  life. 

"  As  sure  5s  that  I  am  called  Old  Madame,"  she 
repeated.  "  Barbara,  come  here.  As  sure  as  that  I 
am  called  Old  Madame." 

But  she  had  not  always  been  Old  Madame.  A 
woman  not  far  from  ninety  now,  tall  and  unbent,  with 
her  great  black  eyes  glowing  like  stars  in  sunken  welli 
from  her  face,  scarred  with  the  script  of  sorrow — a 
proud  beggar,  preserving  in  her  little  coffer  only  the 
money  that  one  day  should  bury  her  with  her  haughty 
kindred — once  she  was  the  beautiful  Elizabeth  Cham- 
pernoune,  the  child  of  noble  ancestry,  the  heiress  of 
unbounded  wealth,  the  last  of  a  great  house  of 
honor. 

From  birth  till  age,  nothing  that  surrounded  her 
but  had  its  relation  to  the  family  grandeur.  Her 
estate— -her  grandfather's,  nay,  her  great-grandfather's 
— lay  on  a  goodly  island  at  the  mouth  of  a  broad 
river;  an  island  whose  paltry  fishing-village  of  to-day 
was,  before  her  time,  a  community  where  also  a  hand- 
ful of  other  dignitaries  dwelt  only  in  less  splendor. 
There  were  one  or  two  of  the  ancient  fishermen  and 
pilots  yet  living  when  she  died,  who,  babbling  of  their 
memories,  could  recall  out  of  their  childhood  the 
stately  form  of  her  father,  the  Judge  Champernoune, 
as  he  walked  abroad  in  his  black  robes,  who  came 
from  over  seas  to  marry  her  mother,  the  heiress  of  the 
hero  for  whom  the  King  of  France  had  sent — when,  in 
the  French  and  Indian  wars,  the  echoes  of  his  daring 
deeds  rang  across  the  water — to  make  him  Baron 
Chaslesmarie,  with  famous  grants  and  largesse. 

And  in  state  befitting  one  whom  the  King  of  France 
had  with  his  own  hand  exalted,  had  the  prodigal 
Baron  Chaslesmarie  spent  his  days — never,  however, 
discontinuing  the  vast  fisheries  of  his  father,  in  which 
he  had  himself  made  fortunes  before  (he  King  had 
found  him  out.  And  although  the  title  died  with  him, 
and  the  pension  died  before  him,  for  the  King  of 
France  had,  with  treacherous  complaisance,  ceded  the 
island  to  the  enemy  one  day  when  war  was  over,  yet 


B  Y  HARRIE T  FRESCO  TT  SPOFFORD.  39 

store  of  land  and  money  were  left  for  the  sole  child, 
who  became  the  wife  of  Judge  Champernoune  and  the 
mother  of  Elizabeth. 

What  a  sweet  old  spot  it  was  in  which  Elizabeth's 
girlhood  of  ideal  happiness  went  by  !  The  house, — 
a  many-gabled  dwelling,  here  of  wood  and  there  of 
brick,  with  a  noble  hall  where  the  original  cornices 
and  casements  had  been  replaced  by  others  of  carveti 
mahogany,  the  panels  of  the  doors  rich  with  their 
thick  gilding,  and  the  cellars  three-deep  for  the  cor- 
dials and  dainties  with  which  the  old  Baron  Chasles- 
raarie  had  stored  them, — was  a  part  of  it,  once  brought 
from  foreign  shores  as  the  great  Government-house. 
Set  in  its  brilliant  gardens,  it  was  a  pleasant  sight  to 
see — here  a  broad  upper  gallery  giving  airy  shelter, 
there  a  flight  of  stairs  running  from  some  flower-bed 
to  some  casement,  with  roses  and  honeysuckles 
clambering  about  the  balustrade,  avenues  of  ash  and 
sycamore  leading  away  from  it,  an  outer  velvet  turf 
surrounding  it  and  ending  in  a  boundary  of  mossy 
granite  bowlders.  The  old  baron  slept  in  his  proud 
tomb  across  the  bay — by  the  fort  he  had  defended, 
the  chapel  he  had  built,  in  the  graveyard  of  his 
people,  proud  as  he ;  and  Ben  Benvoisie,  the  lad 
whom  gossips  said  he  had  snatched  from  the  shores 
of  some  Channel  Island  in  one  of  the  wild  voyages  of 
his  youth,  slept  at  his  feet, — but  another  Ben 
Benvoisie  lived  after  him.  In  a  dimple  between  these 
bowlders  of  the  garden's  boundary,  Judge  Champer- 
noune and  his  wife  and  his  other  child  were  laid 
away ;  there  was  always  something  sadly  romantic  to 
Elizabeth  in  the  thought  of  her  father  walking  over 
the  island  from  time  to  time,  and  selecting  this  spot 
for  his  eternal  rest,  where  the  rocky  walls  enclosed 
him,  the  snows  of  winter  and  the  bramble-roses  of 
summer  covered  him,  and  the  waves,  not  far  remote, 
sang  his  long  lullaby. 

By  the  time  that  Elizabeth  inherited  the  place,  the 
importance  of  the  island  town  had  gone  up  the  river  to 
a  spot  on  the  mainland,  and  one  by  one  the  great 
families  had  followed,  the  old  ji'd^e  buying  the  land  of 
them  as  they  went,  and  their  houses,  dismembered, 
with  fire  and  with  decay,  of  a  u  ing  here  and  a  gable 
there,  and  keeping  but  little  trace  of  them.  The 


40 


OLD  MADAME. 


judge  had  no  thought  of  leaving ;  and  the  people 
would  have  felt  as  if  the  hand  of  Providence  had  been 
withdrawn  had  he  done  so.  Nor  had  Elizabeth  any 
thought  of  it,  when  she  came  to  reign  in  her  father's 
stead  and  infuse  new  life  into  the  business  of  her 
ancestors,  that  had  continued,  as  it  were,  by  its  own 
momentum,  since,  although  Judge  Champernoune  had 
not  thought  it  beneath  his  judicial  dignity  to  carry  it 
on  as  he  found  it,  yet,  owing  to  his  other  duties,  he 
had  not  given  it  that  personal  attention  it  had  in  the 
vigor  and  impetus  of  the  Chaslesmaries.  She  had  not 
a  memory  that  did  not  belong  to  the  place  ;  certain 
sunbeams  that  she  recalled  slanting  down  the  ware- 
houses rich  with  the  odors  of  spices  and  sugar, 
through  which  she  had  wandered  as  a  child,  were 
living  things  to  her;  a  foggy  morning,  when  an  unseen 
fruiter  in  the  sea-mist  made  all  the  air  of  the  island 
port  delicious  as  some  tropical  grove,  with  its  cargo 
of  lemons,  seemed  like  a  journey  to  the  ends  of 
ends  of  the  earth.  And  the  place  itself  was  her 
demesne,  she  its  acknowledged  chatelaine ;  there  was 
not  a  woman  in  the  town  who  had  not  served  in  her 
mother's  kitchen  or  hall ;  it  was  in  her  fishing-smacks 
the  men  went  out  to  sea,  in  her  brigs  they  ran  down  to 
the  West  Indian  waters  and  over  to  the  Mediterranean 
ports — perhaps,  alas,  the  African  ;  it  was  her  ware- 
houses they  filled  with  goods  from  far  countries, 
which  her  agents  scattered  over  the  land — for  a  com- 
merce that,  beginning  with  the  supplying  of  the  fish- 
ing-fleets, had  swelled  into  a  great  foreign  trade. 
And  their  homes  were  all  that  she  could  make  them 
in  their  degree  ;  their  children  she  herself  attended  in 
sudden  illness,  having  been  reared  as  her  mother  was 
before  her,  in  the  homely  surgery  and  herb  craft  proper 
to  those  that  had  others  in  their  charge  ;  and  many  a 
stormy  night,  in  later  years,  did  the  good  Dame 
Elizabeth  leave  her  own  children  in  their  downy  nests, 
and  hasten  to  ease  some  child  going  out  of  the  world 
on  the  horrible  hoarse  breath  of  croup,  or  to  bring 
other  children  into  the  world  in  scorn  of  doctors  three 
miles  off. 

She  was  twenty  five  when  the  step-son  of  her 
father's  sister,  her  cousin  by  marriage  but  not  by 
blood,  appeared  to  fulfil  the  agreement  of  their  parents, 


B  Y  HARK  IE  T  FRESCO  TT  SPOFFORD.  4 1 

to  take  effect  when  he  should  finish  his  travels — which 
indeed,  he  had  been  in  no  haste  to  end.  She  had  not 
been  without  suitors,  of  high  and  low  degree.  Had 
not  the  heir  of  the  Canadian  governor  spoken  of  a 
treaty  for  the  hand  of  this  fair  princess?  Was  it  not 
Ben  Benvoisie,  the  bold  young  master  of  a  fishing- 
smack,  with  whom  she  had  played  when  a  child,  who 
once  would  have  carried  her  off  to  sea  like  any  Norse 
pirate,  and  who  had  dared  to  leave  his  kiss  red  on  her 
lips  ?  Had  Elizabeth  been  guilty  of  thinking  that,  had 
she  been  a  river-pilot's  daughter,  such  kisses  would 
not  come  amiss  ? 

Yet  long  ago  had  she  understood  that  she  \\as 
pledged  to  her  cousin  Louis,  and  she  waited  for  his 
coming.  His  eyes  were  as  blue  as  hers  were  browi., 
his  hair  as  black  as  hers  was  red,  his  features  as  Greek 
as  hers  were  Norrnan,  his  stature  as  commanding  as 
her  own. 

"  Oh  he  was  a  beauty,  my  cousin  Louis  was!  "  she 
used  to  say. 

She  never  called  him  her  lover,  nor  her  husband — he 
was  always  her  cousin  Louis. 

"  So  you  have  come,  sir,"  she  said,  when  he  stepped 
ashore,  and  crossed  the  street  and  met  her  at  the  gate, 
and  would  have  kissed  her  brow.  "  More  slowly,  sir," 
she  said,  drawing  back.  "  You  have  come  to  win,  not 
to  wear.  Elizabeth  Chaslesmarie  Champernoune  is 
not  a  ribbon  or  a  rose,  to  be  tossed  aside  and  picked 
up  at  will." 

"  By  the  Lord  !  "  cried  Cousin  Louis.  "  If  I  had 
dreamed  she  were  the  rose  she  is,  the  salt  seas  would 
not  have  been  running  all  these  years  between  me  and 
her  sweetness — and  her  thorns." 

"  This  is  no  court,  and  these  no  court-ladies,  Cousin 
Louis,"  she  replied.  "  We  are  plain  people,  used  only 
to  plain  speeches." 

"  Plain,  indeed,"  said  Cousin  Louis.  "  Only  Helen 
of  Troy  Was  plainer  !  " 

"Nor  do  flattering  words,"  she  said,  "well  befit 
those  whose  slow  coming  flatters  ill." 

But  the  smile  with  which  she  uttered  her  somewhat 
bitter  speech  was  of  enchanting  good-humor,  and 
Cousin  Louis  thought  his  lines  had  fallen  in  pleasant 
places. 


42  OLtS  MADAME. 

He  was  not  so  sure  of  it  when  a  month  had  passed, 
and  the  same  smile  sweetened  an  icy  manner  still,  and 
he  had  not  yet  been  able,  in  the  rush  of  guests  that 
surrounded  her,  to  have  a  word  alone  with  Elizabeth. 
He  saw  that  jackanapes  of  a  young  West  Indian 
planter  bring  the  color  to  her  cheek  with  his  whispered 
word.  He  saw  her  stroll  down  between  the  sycamores, 
unattended  by  any  save  Captain  Wentworth.  But  let 
him  strive  to  gain  her  ear  and  one  of  the  young  officers 
from  Fort  Chaslesmarie  was  sure  to  intercept  him, — 
strive  to  speak  with  her,  and  Dorothy  and  Jean  and 
Margaret  and  Belle  seemed  to  spring  from  the  ground 
to  her  side.  From  smiling  he  changed  to  sullen,  and 
from  sullen  to  savage — to  abuse  his  folly,  to  abuse  her 
coquetry,  to  wonder  if  he  cared  enough  for  the  winning 
of  her  to  endure  these  indignities,  and  all  at  once  to 
discover  that  this  month  had  taught  him  there  was  but 
one  woman  in  the  world  for  him,  and  all  the  rest  were 
shadows.  One  woman  in  the  world, — and  without  her, 
life  was  so  incomplete,  himself  so  halved,  that  death 
would  be  the  better  portion. 

How  then  ?  What  to  do  ?  Patience  gave  up  the 
,siege.  He  was  thinking  of  desperate  measures  on  the 
day  when,  moping  around  the  shores  alone  in  a  boat, 
he  espied  them  riding  from  the  Beacon  Hill  down  upon 
the  broad  ferry-boat  that  crossed  the  shallow  inlet. 
How  his  heart  knocked  his  sides  as  he  saw  that  pale, 
dark  West  Indian,  with  his  purple  velvet  corduroys, 
and  his  nankeen  jacket  and  jockey-cap,  riding  down 
beside  her, — as  he  saw  Wentworth  spring  from  the 
stirrup  to  offer  a  palm  for  her  foot  when  they  reached 
the  door!  But  Cousin  Louis  had  not  waited  for  that; 
he  had  put  some  strength  to  his  strokes  and  was  at  the 
door  before  him,  was  at  her  side  before  him,  compelling 
his  withdrawal,  offering  no  palm  to  tread  on,  but  reach- 
ing up  and  grasping  her  waist  with  his  two  hands. 

"  By  heaven  !  "  he  murmured  then,  as  Wentworth 
was  beyond  hearing,  his  eyes  blazing  on  hers.  "  What 
man  do  you  think' will  endure  this?  What  man  will 
suffer  this  suspense  in  which  you  keep  me  ?  " 

"  It  is  you,  Cousin  Louis,  who  are  keeping  me  in 
suspense,"  she  answered,  as  she  hung  above  him  there. 

And  was  there  anything  in  her  arch  tone  that  gave 
him  hope  ?  He  released  her  then,  but  when  an  hout 


BY  HA RKIE T  FRESCO TT  SPOFFORD.  4 3 

later  he  met  her  again,  "  Very  well,"  he  said,  in  the 
suppressed  key  of  his  passion.  "  I  will  keep  you  in 
the  suspense  you  spoke  of  no  more.  You  will  marry 
me  this  day,  or  not  at  all.  By  my  soul,  I  will  wait  no 
longer  for  my  answer  !  " 

"  You  have  never  asked  me,  sir,  before,"  she  said. 
"  How  could  you  have  an  answer  ?  I  hardly  know  if  you 
have  asked  me  now. 

But  that  sunset,  with  Belle  and  Margaret  and  Jean 
and  Dorothy,  she  strolled  down  to  the  little  church, 
that  by  some  hidden  password  was  half-filled  with  the 
fishing-people  and  her  servants.  And  when  she  came 
back,  she  was  leaning  on  Cousin  Louis's  arm  very 
differently  from  her  usual  habit,  and  the  girls  were 
going  on  before. 

"  If  I  had  known  this  Cossack  fashion  was  the  way 
to  win,"  Cousin  Louis  was  saying — when  a  scream 
from  Margaret  and  Belle  and  Dorothy  and  Jean  rang 
back  to  them,  and  hurrying  forward,  they  found  the 
girls  with  their  outcry  between  two  drawn  swords,  for 
Wentworth  and  the  West  Indian  had  come  down  into 
the  moonlit  glade  to  finish  a  sudden  quarrel  that  had 
arisen  over  their  wine,  as  to  the  preferences  of  the  fair 
chatelaine. 

"  Put  up  your  swords,  gentlemen,"  said  Cousin 
Louis,  with  his  proud,  happy  smile,  "unless  you  wish 
to  measure  them  with  mine.  It  would  be  folly  to  fight 
about  nothing.  And  there  is  no  such  person  as  Eliz- 
abeth Champernoune." 

The  men  turned  white  in  the  moonlight  to  see  the 
lovely  creature  standing  there,  and  before  they  had 
time  for  anger  or  amazement,  Elizabeth  said  after 
him  ; 

"  There  is  no  such  person  as  Elizabeth  Champer- 
noune. She  married,  an  hour  ago,  her  cousin  Louis." 

Ah  me,  that  all  these  passions  now  should  be  but 
idle  air !  Perhaps  the  hearts  of  the  gallants  swelled 
and  sank  and  swelled  again,  as  they  looked  at  her, 
beautiful,  rosy  and  glowing,  in  the  broad  white  beam 
that  bathed  her.  They  put  up  their  swords,  and  went 
to  the  house  and  drank  her  health  and  were  rowed 
away. 

Elizabeth  and  Cousin  Louis  settled  down  to  their 
long  life  of  promised  happiness,  in  the  hospitality  of 


44 


OLD  MADAME. 


an  open  hearth  around  which  friends  and  children 
clustered,  blest,  it  seemed,  by  fortune  and  by  fate. 
Gay  parties  came  and  went  from  ihe  town  above,  from 
larger  and  more  distant  towns,  from  the  village  and 
port  across  the  bay.  Life  was  all  one  long,  sweet 
holiday.  What  pride  and  joy  was  theirs  when  the  son 
Chaslesmarie  was  born;  what  tender  bliss  Elizabeth's 
when  the  velvet  face  of  the  little  Louise  first  lay 
beneath  her  cwn  and  she  sank  away  with  her  into  a 
land  of  downy  dreams,  conscious  only  of  the  wings  of 
love  hovering  over  her  !  How,  at  once,  as  child  after 
child  came,  they  seemed  to  turn  into  waternixies, 
taking  to  the  sea  as  naturally  as  the  gulls  flying  around 
the  cliffs !  How  each  loiterer  in  the  village  would 
make  the  children  his  own,  teaching  them  every  prank 
of  the  waves,  taking  them  in  boats  far  beyond  the  outer 
light,  bringing  them  through  the  breakers  after  dark, 
wrapped  in  great  pilot-coats  and  drenched  with  foam  ! 
She  never  knew  what  was  fear  for  her  five  boys,  the 
foster-brothers  of  all  the  other  children  in  ihe  village  ; 
only  the  little  maiden  Louise,  pale  as  the  rose  that 
grew  beneath  the  oriel,  she  kept  under  her  eye  as  she 
might,  bringing  her  up  in  fine  household  arts  and 
delicate  accomplishments,  ignorant  of  the  shadow  of 
Ben  Benvoisie  stalking  so  close  behind  as  to  darken 
all  her  work. 

Her  husband  had  taken  the  great  business  that 
Elizabeth's  people  had  so  long  carried  on  through 
their  glories  and  titles,  their  soldiery  and  war,  their 
other  pursuits  if  they  had  them ;  his  warehouse  lined 
the  shores,  the  offing  was  full  of  his  ships,  he  owned 
almost  the  last  rod  of  land  on  the  island  and  much 
along  the  main.  He  did  not  pretend  to  maintain  the 
state  of  the  old  baron  ;  but  to  be  a  guest  at  Chasles- 
marie was  to  live  a  charmed  life  awhile.  He  was  a 
man  of  singular  uprightness;  as  he  grew  older  apt  to 
bursts  of  anger,  yet  to  Elizabeth  and  to  his  household 
he  was  gentleness  itself;  some  men  trembled  at  the 
sound  of  his  voice,  but  children  never  did.  If  he  was 
not  so  beloved  as  his  wife  by  the  fishing-people,  it  was 
because  he  was  not  recognized  master  as  of  right,  and 
because  he  exacted  his  due,  although  tossing  it  in  the 
lap  of  the  next  needy  one.  But  he  was  a  person  with 
whom  no  other  took  a  liberty. 


B  Y  HARRIET  PRESCOTT  SPOFFORD.  45 

"  A  king  among  men,  was  rny  cousin  Louis,"  Old 
Madame  used  10  say,  and  sigh  and  >igh  and  sigh  again 
as  she  said  it. 

But  the  hospitality  of  the  island  was  not  all  that  of 
pleasure  and  sumptuous  ease.  It  was  a  place  easily 
reached  by  sail  from  one  or  more  of  the  great  towns, 
by  boat  from  the  town  above  ;  and  in  the  stirring  and 
muttering  of  political  discontent,  the  gentlemen  who 
appeared  and  disappeared  at  all  hours  of  the  day,  and 
as  often  by  night,  folded  in  cloaks  wet  with  the  salt  sea 
spray,  wore  spurs  at  their  heels  and  swords  at  their 
sides  to  some  purpose.  And  when  at  last  war  came — 
Horror  of  horrors,  what  was  this !  Cousin  Louis  and 
his  island  had  renounced  allegiance  to  the  crown,  and 
had  taken  the  side  of  the  colonial  rebels  and  the  Conti- 
nental Congress. 

"We!"  cried  Elizabeth,  who  knew  little  of  such 
things,  and  had  a  vague  idea  that  they  owed  fealty  still 
to  that  throne  at  whose  foot  her  grandfather  had  knelt. 
"  We,  whom  the  King  of  France  ennobled  and  en- 
riched ! " 

"  And  for  that  price  were  we  sold  ere  we  were  born, 
and  do  we  stay  slaves  handed  about  from  one  ruler  to 
another  ?  "  her  husband  answered  her.  "  We  have 
ennobled  and  enriched  ourselves.  We  have  twice  and 
thrice  repaid  the  kings  of  France  in  tribute  money. 
Soon  shall  the  kings  of  France  go  the  way  of  all  the 
world — may  the  kings  of  Britain  follow  them  !  Hence- 
forth, the  people  put  on  the  crown.  I  believe  in  the 
rights  of  man.  I  live  under  no  tyranny — but  yours," 
he  said  gayly. 

"A  Chaslesmarie  !  A  Champernoune  !  "  Elizabeth 
was  saying  to  herself,  heedless  of  his  smile. 

"  We  are  an  insignificant  islet,"  her  husband  urged. 
"  The  kings  of  France  have  betrayed  us.  The  kings 
of  Britain  have  oppressed  us.  We  renounce  the  one. 
We  defy  the  other!  "  And  he  ran  the  flag  under  which 
the  rebels  fought  up  the  staff  at  Chaslesmarie,  and  it 
was  to  be  seen  at  the  peak  of  all  his  brigantines  and 
sloops  that,  leaving  their  legitimate  affairs,  armed  them- 
selves and  scoured  the  seas,  and  brought  their  prizes 
into  port.  But  freely  as  this  wealth  came  in,  as  freely 
it  went  out ;  for  Cousin  Louis  did  nothing  by  the 
halves.  And  heart  and  soul  being  in  the  matter,  it  is 


46  OLD  MADAME. 

safe  to  say  that  not  one  guinea  of  the  gold  his  sailors 
brought  him  in,  during  that  long  struggle,  remained  to 
him  at  its  close. 

It  was  during  this  struggle  that,  when  one  day  the 
sloop  Adder1  s -tongue  sailed,  the  elder  son  of  Ben  Ben- 
voisie — who  had  along  since  married  a  fisherman's 
daughter — was  found  on  board,  a  stowaway.  Great 
was  Ben  Benvoisie's  wrath  when  he  missed  his  son  ; 
but  there  was  nothing  to  be  done.  He  rejected 
Cousin  Louis's  regrets  with  scorn.  But  when  the 
sloop  brought  in  her  prizes,  and  the  first  man  ashore 
told  him  his  son  had  died  of  some  ailment  before 
he  sighted  an  enemy,  then  his  rage  rose  in  a  flame,  he 
towered  like  an  angry  god,  and  standing  on  the  head  of 
the  wharf,  in  the  presence  of  all  the  people,  he  cursed 
Cousin  Louis,  root  and  branch,  at  home  and  abroad, — 
a  black  cloud  full  of  bursting  lightnings  rising  behind 
him,  as  he  spoke,  as  if  he  had  a  confederate  in  evil 
powers. — cursed  him  in  wild  and  stinging  words  that 
made  the  blood  run  cold,  that  cut  Cousin  Louis  to  the 
heart,  that,  when  they  were  repeated  to  her,  made  even 
Elizabeth  turn  faint  and  sick.  "There  is  a  strange 
second-sight  with  those  Benvoisies,"  she  said.  "  God 
grant  his  curses  come  to  naught."  But  she  hardly 
ever  saw  him  at  a  distance  without  an  instant's  prayer, 
and  she  knew  that  the  fishing-people  always  after 
that  sight  of  him  standing  there  at  the  head  of  the 
wharf,  with  his  blazing  eyes  and  streaming  hair,  and  the 
rain  and  the  lightning  and  the  thunder  volleying 
around  him,  held  some  superstitions  of  their  own 
regarding  the  evil  eye  of  the  Banvoisies,  and  kept  some 
silent  watch  to  see  what  would  come  of  it  all. 

But  the  war  at  last  was  ended,  the  world  was  trying 
to  regain  its  equilibrium,  and  continental  money  was  at 
hand  on  every  side,  and  little  other.  Cousin  Louis, 
who  had  faith  in  the  new  republic,  believed  with  an 
equally  hot  head  in  its  good  faith,  and  sent  word  far 
and  near  that  he  would  redeem  the  current  paper, 
dollar  for  dollar  in  gold.  And  he  did  so.  There  were 
barrels  of  it  in  his  warehouse  garrets,  and  his  grand- 
children had  it  to  play  with.  "  It  is  Ben  Benvoisie's 
word,  said  Elizabeth,  when  they  saw  the  mistake. 
But  Cousin  Louis  laughed  and  kissed  her,  and  said  it 
had  sunk  a  good  deal  of  treasure,  to  be  sure,  but 


B  Y  HARRIS  T  FRESCO  TT  SPOFFORD.  47 

asked  if  Ben  Benvoisie's  word  was  to  outweigh  his 
fisheries  and  Meets  and  warehouses  and  hay-lands — his 
splendid  boys,  his  girl  Louise  !  And  he  caught  the 
shrinking,  slender  creature  to  his  heart  as  he  spoke — 
this  lovely  young  Louise,  as  fair  and  fragile  as  a  lily  on 
its  stem,  whom  he  loved  as  he  loved  his  life,  his  flower- 
girl,  as  he  called  her,  just  blossoming  into  girlhood, 
with  the  pale  rose-tint  on  her  cheek,  and  her  eyes  like 
the  azure  larkspur.  How  was  he,  absorbed  in  his 
counting-room,  forgetful  at  his  dinner  table,  taking  his 
pleasures  with  guests,  with  gayeties,  to  know  that  his 
slip  of  a  girl,  not  yet  sixteen,  met  a  handsome  hazel- 
eyed  lad  at  the  foot  of  the  long  garden  every  night, — 
B'en  Benvoisie  the  third, — and  had  promised  to  go  with 
him,  his  wife,  in  boy's  clothes,  whenever  the  fruiter  was 
ready  for  sea  again  !  But  old  Ben  Benvoisie  knew  it ; 
and  he  could  not  forbear  his  savage  jeer,  and  the  end 
ivns  that  Cousin  Louis,  at  the  foot  of  the  long  garden 
one  night,  put  a  bullet  through  young  Ben  Benvoisie's 
arm,  and  carried  off  his  fainting  girl  to  her  room  that 
she  showed  no  wish  to  leave  again.  "  She  will  die," 
said  Cousin  Louis,  one  day  toward  the  year's  close,  "  if 
we  do  not  give  way." 

"  She  had  better,"  said  Elizabeth,  who  knew  what 
the  misery  of  her  child's  marriage  with  old  Ben  Ben- 
voisie's son  must  needs  be  when  the  first  glamor  of 
young  passion  should  be  over. 

And  she  did.  And  Cousin  Louis's  heart  went  down 
into  the  grave  with  her. 

"  It  is  not  only  old  Ben  Benvoisie's  word,"  said  Eliza- 
beth. "  It  is  his  hand." 

Her  secret  tears  were  bitter  for  the  child,  but  not  so 
bitter  as  they  would  have  been  had  she  first  passed 
into  old  Ben  Benvoisie's  power,  and  been  made  the 
instrument  for  humbling  the  pride  and  breaking  the 
heart  daily  of  her  brothers  Chaslesmarie  and  Champer- 
nonne,  and  of  the  hated  owner  of  the  Adder* s-tongiu\ 
had  she  lived  to  smart  and  suffer  under  the  difference 
between  the  rude  race,  reared  in  a  fishing-hut,  and  that 
reared  in  the  mansion  )f  her  ancestors.  Perhaps  Old 
Madame  never  saw  the  thing  fairly;  it  always  seemed 
to  her  that  Louise  died  of  some  disease  incident  to 
childhood.  "  I  have  my  boys  left,"  said  Elizabeth. 
"  And  no  one  can  disturb  my  little  grave." 


48  OLD  MADAME. 

It  was  two  graves  the  second  year  after.  For 
Chaslesmarie,  her  first-born  and  her  darling,  whose 
baby  kisses  had  been  sweeter  than  her  lover's,  the 
life  in  whose  little  limbs  and  whose  delicious  flesh  had 
been  dearer  than  her  own,  his  bright  head  now 
brighter  for  the  fresh  laurels  of  Harvard. — Chasles- 
marie, riding  down  from  the  Beacon  Hill,  where  he 
had  gone  to  see  the  fishing-fleet  make  sail,  was  thrown 
from  his  horse,  and  did  not  live  long  enough  to  tell 
who  was  the  man  starting  from  the  covert  of  bayberry- 
bushes.  But  Elizabeth  carried  a  stout  heart  and  a 
high  head.  She  could  not,  if  she  would,  have  bent  as 
Cousin  Louis  did,  nor  did  the  proud  serenity  leave  her 
eye,  although  his  darkened  with  a  sadness  never 
lightened.  None  knew  her  pangs,  nor  saw  the  tears 
that  stained  her  pillow  in  the  night ;  she  would  if  she 
could,  have  hid  her  suffering  from  herself.  She  began 
to  feel  a  terrible  assurance  that  she  was  fighting  fail-, 
but  she  would  make  a  hard  fight  of  it.  Conscious 
of  her  integrity  of  purpose,  of  the  justice  of  her 
claims,  of  her  right  to  the  children  she  had  borne, 
there  was  something  in  her  of  the  spirit  of  the  ancients 
who  dared,  if  not  to  defy  the  gods,  yet  to  accept  the 
combat  offered  by  them.  Champernoune  was  the  heir 
instead,  that  was  all.  Then  there  were  the  twin  boys, 
Max  and  Rex,  two  lawless  young  souls  •,  and  the 
youngest  of  all,  St.  Jean,  whose  head  always  wore  a  halo 
in  Elizabeth's  eyes.  With  these,  why  should  she 
grieve  ?  Now  she  was  also  the  mother  of  angels  ! 

Again,  after  a  while,  the  frequent  festivities  filled 
the  house,  and  the  great  gold  and  silver  plate  glittered 
in  the  dark  dining-room  and  filled  it,  at  every  touch, 
with  melodious  and  tremulous  vibrations.  Now  the 
Legislature  of  the  State,  one  and  all,  attended  a  grand 
banqueting  there,  now  the  Governor  and  his  Council ; 
now  navy-yard  and  fort  and  town,  and  far-off  towns, 
came  to  the  balls  that  did  not  end  even  with  the 
bright  outdoor  breakfast,  but  ran  into  the  next  night's 
dancing,  and  a  whole  week's  gayety ;  now  it  was  boat- 
ing and  bathing  in  the  creeks ;  now  it  was  sailing  out 
beyond  the  last  lights  with  music  and  flowers  and 
cheer  ;  and  all  the  time  it  was  splendor  and  sumptuous- 
ness  and  life  at  the  breaking  crest.  And  Elizabeth 
led  the  dance,  the  stateliest  of  the  stately,  the  most 


B  Y  HA  RRIR  T  PR  E  SCO  TT  SPOFFORD.  49 

beautiful  still  of  the  beautiful.  And  if  sometimes  she 
saw  old  Ben  Benvoisie's  eyes,  as  he  leaned  over  the 
gate  and  looked  at  her  a  moment  within  the  gardens 
and  among  her  roses,  it  was  not  to  shudder  at  them. 
What  possessed  Elizabeth  in  those  days  ?  She  only 
felt  that  the  currents  of  her  blood  must  sweep  along  in 
this  mad  way,  or  the  heart  would  stop. 

Then  came  Champernoune's  wedding, — he  and  that 
friend  whom  the  chief  magistrate  of  the  land  delighted 
to  honor,  marrying  sisters  in  one  night.  How  lovely, 
how  gracious,  how  young  the  bride  !  Was  it  at  Gon- 
aives  that  year  that  she  died  dancing  ?  Was  it  at 
Gonaives  that  the  yellow-fever  buried  Champernoune 
in  the  common  trench  ? 

Elizabeth  was  coming  up  the  landing  from  the  boat, 
her  little  negro  dwarf  carrying  her  baskets,  when  the 
news  reached  her  quick  senses,  as  the  one  that  spoke 
it  meant  it  should  ;  she  staggered  and  fell.  The  doctors 
came  to  bind  up  the  broken  bones,  and  only  when  they 
said,  "  At  last  it  is  quite  right ;  but,  dear  lady,  your 
dancing  days  are  over,"  did  any  see  her  tears.  She 
had  buried  her  only  girl,  her  first-born  boy,  her  married 
heir,  without  great  signs  of  sorrow.  She  had  plunged 
into  a  burning  house  in  the  village  once,  gathering  her 
gauzy  skirts  about  her,  to  bring  out  the  little  Louise 
whom  an  unfaithful  nurse  had  taken  there  and  forsaken 
in  her  fright ;  she  had  waded,  torch  in  hand,  into  the 
wildly  rolling  surf  of  a  starless  night  to  clutch  the  bow 
of  Chaselesmarie's  boat  that  was  sweeping  helplessly 
to  the  breaker  with  the  unskilled  child  at  the  helm  ; 
she  had  shut  herself  up  with  Champernoune,  when  Ben 
Benvoisie  brought  back  the  small-pox  to  the  village, 
and  had  suffered  no  one  to  minister  to  him  but  herself ; 
and  when  the  clog  all  thought  mad  tore  Cousin 
Louis's  arm,  she  herself  had  sucked  the  poison  from 
the  wound. 

Yet  with  that  sentence,  that  absurd  little  sentence, 
that  her  dancing  days  were  over,  it  seemed  all  at  once 
to  Elizabeth  that  everything  else  was  over,  too.  With 
Champernoune  now  everything  else  had  gone — state 
and  splendor,  peace  and  pleasure,  hospitality  and  home 
and  hearth,  and  all  the  rest.  All  things  had  been 
possible  to  her,  the  mastery  of  her  inner  joy  itself  in 
one  form  or  another,  while  she  held  her  forces  under 
4 


50  OLD  MADAME. 

her.  But  now  she  herself  was  stricken,  and  who  was 
to  fight  for  them  ?  Who,  when  the  stars  in  their  courses 
fought  against  Sisera  ! 

But  as  wild  as  the  grief  of  Cousin  Louis  was,  hers 
was  as  still,  though  there  were  ashes  on  her  heart.  She 
went  about  with  a  cane  when  she  got  up,  unable  to 
step  a  minuet  or  bend  a  knee  in  prayer.  "  But  see," 
cried  old  Ben  Benvoisie  to  himself,  "  her  head  is  just 
as  high !  " 

Not  so  with  Cousin  Louis.  He  sat  in  his  counting- 
room,  his  face  bent  on  his  hands  half  the  time.  Cargoes 
came  in  unheeded,  reports  were  made  him  unregarded, 
ships  lay  at  the  wharf  unloaded,  the  state  of  the  market 
did  not  concern  him — nothing  seemed  of  any  matter  but 
those  three  graves.  Then  he  roused  himself  to  a 
spasmodic  activity,  gave  orders  here  and  orders  there, 
but  his  mind  was  otherwhere.  With  the  striking  of  the 
year's  balance  he  had  made  bad  bargains,  taken  bad 
debts,  sent  out  bad  men  with  his  fleets,  brought  in  his 
fares  and  his  fruits  and  foreign  goods  at  a  bad  season, 
lost  the  labor  of  years.  A  fire  had  reduced  a  great 
property  elsewhere  to  ashes,  a  storm  had  scattered  and 
destroyed  his  southern  ships.  "  Something  must  be 
done,"  said  Cousin  Louis.  And  he  looked  back  from 
his  counting-room,  on  the  fair  mansion  from  whose 
windows  he  had  so  long  heard  song  and  laughter  float- 
ing, with  its  gardens  round  about  it,  where  the 
sweet-briar  and  the  tall  white  rose  climbed  and 
looked  back  at  the  red  rose  blushing  at  their  feet, 
where  the  honeysuckles  shed  their  fragrance,  where 
the  great  butterflies  waved  their  wings  over  all  the 
sweet  old-fashioned  flowers  that  had  been  brought 
from  the  gardens  of  France  and  summer  after  summer 
had  bloomed  and  spiced  the  air,  where  the  golden 
robins  flashed  from  bough  to  bough  of  the  lane  oi 
plum-trees,  and  the  sunshine  lay  vivid  on  the  encir- 
cling velvet  verdure.  "  Her  home,  and  the  home  of  her 
people  for  a  century  behind  her — the  people  whose 
blood  in  her  veins  went  to  make  her  what  she  is — 
noblest  woman,  sweetest  wife  that  ever  made  a  man's 
delight.  The  purest,  proudest,  loftiest  soul  that  looks 
heaven  in  the  face.  O  God,  bless  her,  my  dear  wife 
— dearer  than  when  I  wooed  you  or  when  I  wedded 
you,  by  all  the  long  increase  of  years  !  Something 


B  Y  HARRIE  T  FRESCO  TT  SPOFFORD.  5 1 

must  be  done,"  said  Cousin  Louis,  "or  that  will  go 
with  the  rest." 

Perhaps  Cousin  Louis  began  to  forefeel  the  future 
then.  Certainly,  as  a  little  time  passed  on,  an  unused 
timidity  overwhelmed  him.  Against  Elizabeth's  advice 
lie  began  to  call  in  various  moneys  from  here  and 
there  where  they  were  gathering  more  to  themselves. 
"There  is  to  be  another  war  with  the  British,"  he  said. 
"  We  must  look  to  our  fortunes."  But  he  would  not 
have  any  interference  with  their  way  of  life,  the  way 
Elizabeth  had  always  lived.  There  must  still  be  the 
dinner  to  the  judges,  the  supper  to  the  clergy,  the  fre- 
quent teas  to  the  ladies  of  the  fort,  the  midsummer 
throng  of  young  people,  the  house  full  for  the  Christ- 
mas holidays  ;  Max  and  Rex  were  to  be  thought  of, 
St.  Jean  was  not  to  grow  up  remembering  a  house  of 
mourning.  Why  had  no  one  told  them  that,  in  all  the 
festive  season  before  Champernoune's  death,  the 
younger  boys  not  being  held  then  to  strict  account,  old 
Ben  Benvoisie,  sitting  with  them  on  the  sea-beaten 
rocks,  had  fired  their  fancy  with  stories  of  the  wild  sea- 
life  that  had  blanched  his  hair  and  furrowed  his  face 
before  the  time  ?  One  day  St.  Jean  came  in  to  break 
the  news  :  Max  and  Rex  had  run  away  to  sea.  "  I 
should  have  liked  to  go,"  said  St.  Jean,  "but  I  could 
not  leave  my  mother  so." 

"By  the  gods!"  said  his  father.  "You  shall  go 
master  of  the  best  ship  I  have  !  "  And  in  due  time  he 
sent  him  supercargo  to  the  East,  that  he  might  learn,  all 
that  a  lad  who  had  tumbled  about  among  ropes  and 
blocks  and  waves  and  rocks,  ever  since  his  birth,  did 
not  already  know.  But  he  forbade  his  wife  to  repeat  to 
him  the  names  of  Rex  and  Max  ;  nor  would  they  ever 
again  have  been  mentioned  in  his  presence  but  for  the 
report  of  a  ship  that  had  spoken  the  craft  they  took, 
and  learned  that  it  had  been  overhauled,  and  Max,  of 
whom  nothing  more  was  ever  heard,  pressed  into  the 
British  service,  and  Rex,  ordered  aloft  on  a  stormy 
night,  had  fallen  from  the  yard  into  the  sea,  and  his 
grave  was  rolled  between  two  waves. 

As  Elizabeth  came  home  from  the  little  church — the 
first  time  she  went  out  after  this — thinking,  as  she 
went,  of  the  twilight  when  she  found  Champernoune, 
who  had  stolen  from  the  lightsome  scenes  that  greeted 


52  OLD  MADAME. 

him  and  his  young  bride,  to  stand  a  little  while  beside 
the  grave  where  his  brother  Chaslesmarie  slept — she 
met  old  Ben  Benvoisie. 

"Well, "he  said,  "you  know  how  good  it  is  your- 
self." 

"  Is  not  the  curse  fulfilled,  Ben  Benvoisie  ?  "  she  de- 
manded. "  Are  you  going  to  spare  me  none  ?  " 

"  None,"  said  Ben  Benvoisie. 

The  servants  were  running  toward  her  when  she 
readied  the  house.  The  master  had  a  stroke.  A 
stroke  indeed.  He  satin  his  chair  a  year,  head  and 
face  white,  speaking  of  nothing  but  his  children's 
graves,  they  thought.  "Too  cold — too  damp.  Why 
did  I  bury 'there  ?"  he  murmured,  "I  will  go  have 
them  up,"  he  said.  "  Oh,  why  did  I  bury  so  deep — 
cold — cold — Elizabeth  !  "  But  when  Elizabeth  an- 
swered him,  the  thing  he  would  say  had  gone,  and  when 
he  died  at  last,  for  all  his  struggle  for  speech,  it  was 
still  unspoken. 

Ah,  what  a  year  was  that  when  the  long  strain  was 
over,  and  she  had  placed  him  where  she  was  to  lie  her- 
self, at  her  father's  feet !  Things  went  on  as  they 
would  that  year.  Wrapped  in  an  ashen  apathy,  Eliza- 
beth hardly  knew  she  breathed,  and  living  less  at  that 
time  in  this  world  than  the  other,  the  things  of  this 
world  had  small  concern  for  her.  Born,  too,  and 
reared  in  wealth,  she  could  as  easily  have  understood 
that  there  was  any  other  atmosphere  about  her  as  any 
other  condition  ;  and  the  rogues,  then,  had  it  all  their 
own  way.  Suits  for  western  lands  that  were  the  terri- 
torial possessions  of  princes  were  compromised  for 
sums  she  never  saw ;  blocks  of  city  houses  were  sold 
for  taxes ;  heaven  knows  .what  else  was  done,  what 
rights  were  signed  away  on  papers  brought  for  her 
name  as  administratrix.  And  when  St.  Jean  came 
home  from  sea,  where  were  the  various  moneys  that 
his  father  had  been  calling  in  for  so  long  a  time  ? 
There  was  not  a  penny  of  them  to  be  accounted  for. 

St.  Jean  was  a  man  before  his  time.  He  looked 
about  him.  The  great  business  had  gone  to  the  dogs, 
and  some  of  the  clerks  and  factors  had  gone  with  it ; 
at  least,  they  too  had  disappeared.  Other  men,  in 
other  places,  had  taken  advantage  of  the  lapse,  estab- 
lished other  houses,  opened  other  fisheries,  stolen  their 


B  Y  HARK  IE  T  FRESCO  TT  SPOFFORD.  5  3 

markets.  There  was  not  enough  of  either  fleet  left  in 
condition  to  weather  a  gale.  "It  has  all  been  at  the 
top  of  the  wave,"  said  St.  Jean,  "  and  now  we  are  in 
the  trough  of  the  sea.''  But  he  had  his  ship,  the 
Great-heart,  and  with  that  he  set  about  redeeming  his 
fortunes.  And  his  first  step  was  to  bring  home  to  his 
mother  a  daughtei-in-law  as  proud  as  she — Hope,  the 
orphan  of  a  West  Indian  prelate,  with  no  fortune  but 
her  face,  and  with  manners  that  Elizabeth  thought  un- 
becoming so  penniless  a  woman. 

When  St.  Jean  went  away  to  sea  again,  he  estab- 
lished his  wife — Little  Madame,  the  people  had  styled 
her— in  a  home  of  her  own  ;  for  large  as  the  Mansion 
was,  it  was  not  large  enough  to  hold  those  two  women  : 
a  home  in  a  long  low  stone  house  that  belonged  to  the 
estate  and  had  once  been  two  or  three  houses  together, 
— at  which  one  looked  twice,  you  might  say,  to  see  if  it 
were  dwelling  or  bowlder, — and  which  he  renovated 
and  then  filled  with  some  of  the  spare  pictures  and  fur- 
nishings of  the  Mansion-house.  And  there  Hope 
lived,  cheered  Elizabeth  what  she  could,  and  cared  for 
the  children  that  came  to  her — and  how  many  came  ! 
And  Elizabeth,  who  could  never  feel  that  Hope  had 
quite  the  right  to  a  place  as  her  rival  in  St.  Jean's  affec- 
tions, took  these  little  children  to  her  heart,  if  she 
could  not  yet  altogether  take  their  mother ;  and  they 
filled  for  her  many  a  weary  hour  of  St.  Jean's  absences 
on  his  long  voyages, — St.  Jean  who,  in  some  miracu- 
ous  way,  now  represented  to  her  father  and  husband 
and  son. 

Elizabeth  had  time  enough  for  the  little  people  ; 
for  friends  did  not  disturb  her  much  after  the  first 
visits  of  condolence.  Trouble  had  come  to  many  of 
them,  as  well.  Dorothy  and  Margaret  and  Belle  and 
Jean,  and  their  compeers,  were  scattered  and  dead 
and  absorbed  and  forgetful,  and  she  summoned  none 
of  them  about  her  any  more  with  music  and  feasting. 
Of  all  her  wealth  now  nothing  remained  but  a  part  of 
the  land  on  the  island  and  the  adjoining  main,  with  its 
slight  and  fickle  revenue.  Of  all  her  concourse  of 
servants  there  were  only  Phillis  and  Scip,  who  would 
have  thought  themselves  transferred  to  some  other 
world  had  they  left  Old  Madame. 

But  the   Mansion   of  Chaslesmarie  was  a  place  of 


54 


OLD  MADAME. 


pleasure  to  the  children  still,  at  any  rate,  and  the  little 
swarm  spent  many  an  hour  in  the  old  box-bordered 
garden,  where  the  stately  lady  walked  on  Phillis's  arm, 
and  in  the  great  hall  where  she  told  them  the  history 
of  each  of  the  personages  of  the  tall  portraits,  from 
that  of  the  fierce  old  Chaslesmarie  of  all  down  to  the 
angel-faced  child  St.  Jean  :  told  them,  not  as  firing 
pride  with  memories  of  ancient  pride,  but  as  storied 
incidents  of  family  life ;  and  as  she  told  them  she 
seemed  to  live  over  her  share  in  them,  and  place  and 
race  and  memories  seemed  only  a  part  of  herself. 

"  Madame,"  said  St.  Jean  once,  when  at  home, — no 
child  of  hers  had  often  called  her  mother, — "  I  think  if 
we  sold  the  place  and  moved  away  we  would  do  well. 
The  soil  is  used  up,  the  race  is  run  out — if  we  trans- 
planted and  made  new  stock  ?  Here  is  no  chance  to 
educate  the  children  or  to  rebuild  our  fortunes  now. 
Somewhere  else,  it  may  be,  I  could  put  myself  in  better 
business  connection " 

The  gaze  of  his  mother's  burning  black  eyes  bade 
him  to  silence.  She  felt  as  if  in  that  moment  he  had 
forsworn  his  ancestors. 

"  Leave  this  place  of  whose  dust  we  are  made!  "  she 
cried.  "  Or  is  it  made  of  the  dust  of  the  Chasles- 
maries  ?  And  how  short-sighted — here,  where,  at  least, 
we  reign  !  Never  shall  we  leave  it !  See,  St.  Jean,  it 
is  all  yours," — and  from  command  her  voice  took  on 
entreaty,  and  how  could  St.  Jean  resist  the  pleading 
mother !  He  went  away  to  sea  again,  and  left  all  as 
before. 

But  the  earth  had  moved  to  Elizabeth  with  just  one 
thrill  and  tremor.  The  idea,  the  possibility,  of  leaving 
the  place  into  which  every  fibre  of  her  being  was 
wrought  had  shaken  her.  It  was  a  sort  of  conscious 
death  into  whose  blackness  she  looked  for  one  moment 
— so  one  might  feel  about  to  lose  identity.  She  walked 
through  the  rooms  with  their  quaint  and  rich  old  fur- 
nishing, sombre  and  heavy,  their  gilded  panels,  their 
carved  wainscot,  the  old  French  portraits  of  her  peo- 
ple that  looked  down  on  her  and  seemed  to  claim  her; 
she  paused  in  the  oriel  of  the  yellow  drawing-room, 
where  it  always  seemed  like  a  sunshiny  afternoon  in 
an  October  beech-wood—paused,  and  looked  across 
the  bay. 


B  Y  HARRIE  T  FRESCO  TT  SPOFFORD.  5  5 

There  gleamed  the  battlements  of  the  fort  that  her 
grandfather,  the  baron,  had  built ;  there  was  the  church 
below,  there  was  the  tomb,  among  the  graves  of  those 
whose  powers  had  come  to  their  flower  in  him ;  the 
grassy  knoll,  beyond,  gleamed  in  the  gold  of  the  slant 
sun  and  reminded  her  of  the  days  when,  a  child,  she 
used  to  watch  the  last  glint  on  the  low  swells  of  the 
graves,  across  the  blue  waters  of  the  bay  whose  rocky 
islets  rose  red  with  the  rust  of  the  tides.  Far  out,  the 
seas  were  breaking  in  a  white  line  over  the  low  red 
ledge,  and,  farther  still,  the  lighthouse  on  the  dim  old 
Wrecker's  Reef  was  kindling  its  spark  to  answer  the 
light  on  the  head  of  Chaslesmarie  that  her  grandfather 
had  first  hung  in  the  air.  Close  at  hand,  a  boat  made 
in,  piled  high  at  either  end  with  the  brown  sea-weed, 
the  fishing-sails  were  flitting  here  and  there,  as  there 
had  never  been  a  day  when  they  were  not,  and  the 
whole,  bathed  with  the  deepening  sunset  glow,  glittered 
in  peace  and  beauty.  There  had  not  been  ten  days 
in  all  her  life  when  she  had  not  looked  upon  the  scene. 
No,  no,  no  !  As  well  give  up  life  itself,  for  this  was  all 
there  was  of  life  to  her.  There  was  the  shore  where, 
when  a  child,  she  found  the  bed  of  garnets  that  the 
next  tide  washed  away ;  here  could  she  just  remember 
having  seen  the  glorious  old  Baron  Chaslesmarie,  with 
his  men-at-arms  about  him  ;  here  had  her  dear  father 
proudly  walked,  with  his  air  of  inflexible  justice,  and 
the  wind  had  seized  his  black  robes  and  swept  them 
about  her,  running  at  his  side ;  here  had  her  mother 
died ;  here  had  she  first  seen  the  superb  patrician 
beauty  of  her  husband's  face  when  he  came  from 
France,  with  his  head  full  of  Jean  Jacques  and  the 
rights  of  man ;  here  was  the  little  chapel  where  they 
married,  the  linden  avenue  up  which  they  strolled,  with 
the  branches  shaking  out  fragrance  and  star-beams  to- 
gether above  them — the  first  hour,  the  first  delightful 
hour,  they  ever  were  alone  together,  she  and  her 
Cousin  Louis.  Oh,  here  had  been  her  life  with  him — 
a  husband  tenderer  than  a  lover,  a  man  whose  loftiness 
lifted  his  race  and  taught  her  how  upright  other  men 
might  be,  a  soul  so  pure  that  the  light  of  God  seemed 
to  shine  through  it  upon  her  !  Here  had  been  her  joys, 
here  had  been  her  sorrows ;  here  had  she  put  her  love 
away  and  heard  the  molds  ring  down  on  that  dear 


56  OLD  MADAME. 

head ;  here  had  the  world  darkened  to  her,  here 
should  it  darken  to  her  forever  when  all  the  shadows 
of  the  grave  lengthened  around  her.  Father  and 
mother,  husband  and  child,  race  and  land,  they  were 
all  in  this  spot.  These  people,  all  of  whom  she  knew 
by  name,  were  they  not  like  her  own  ;  could  the 
warmth  of  the  blood  bring  much  nearer  to  her  these 
faces  that  had  surrounded  her  since  time  begun — these 
men  and  women  whose  lives  she  had  ordered,  whose 
children  had  been  fostered  with  her  children,  who  half- 
worshiped  her  in  her  girlhood,  who  half-worshiped  her 
still  as  Old  Madame  ?  Could  she  leave  them  ?  Not 
though  St.  Jean's  Great-heart  went  down, — St.  Jean's 
ship  for  which  Hope  on  her  houetop  sas  so  long 
watching.  "  I  refuse  to  think  of  it,"  she  said.  "It  is 
infinitely  tiresome."  And  then  the  children  trooped 
in  and  stopped  further  soliloquy,  and  she  let  them 
dress  themselves  out  in  her  stiff  old  brocades  that 
had  been  sent  for  just  after  she  married  and  had  never 
needed  to  be  renewed, — the  cloth  of-silver  and  peach- 
.  bloom,  the  flowered  Venetian,  the  gold-shot  white 
paduasoy ;  she  liked  to  see  the  pretty  Barbara  and 
Helena  and  Bess  prancing  about  the  shining  floors, 
holding  up  the  long  draperies,  and  she  would  have 
decked  them  out  in  her  old  silver-set  jewels,  too,  had 
they  not  been  parted  with  long  since  when  Cousin 
Louis  was  calling  in  their  moneys.  It  all  renewed  her 
youth  so  sweetly,  if  so  sadly,  and  the  mimic  play  in 
some  obscure  way  making  her  feel  they  only  played  at 
life,  relieved  her  of  a  sense  of  responsibility  regarding 
their  real  life.  When  they  tired  of  their  finery,  she  led 
them  down,  as  usual,  before  the  portrait  of  this  one 
and  of  that,  and  told  over  the  old  stories  they  liked  to 
hear. 

"Madame,"  said  little  Barbara,  lifting  her  stiff 
peach-blossom  draperies,  "why  is  it  always  'then,' — 
why  is  it  never  '  now '  ? " 

But  the  old  dame's  heart  did  not  once  cry  Ichabod. 
To  her  the  glory  never  had  departed.  It  was  as  im- 
perishable as  sky  and  air. 

It  was  the  threatened  war-time  again  at  last;  and 
Hope,  with  her  sweet,  soft  eyes  watching  from  the 
housetop,  saw  her  husband's  ship  come  in,  and  with  it 
its  consort — just  a  day  too  late.  The  embargo  had 


BY  HA RRIE T  FRESCO TT  SPOFFORD.  5 7 

been  declared,  and,  unknowingly;  he  hailed  from  a  for- 
bidden port.  Other  sailors  touched  other  ports  and 
took  out  false  papers  for  protection.  St.  Jean  scorned 
the  act.  He  relied  on  public  justice :  he  relied  on  a 
reed.  His  cargoes  were  confiscated,  and  his  ships 
were  left  at  the  wharf  to  rot  before  he  could  get  hear- 
ing. In  those  two  vessels  was  the  result  of  his  years 
of  storm  and  calm,  nights  when  the  ship  was  heavy  by 
the  head  with  ice,  days  when  her  seamy  sides  were 
scorched  and  blistered  by  the  sun,  the  best  part  of  his 
life.  And  gone  because  he  preferred  poverty  to  per- 
jury. 

"  Better  so,"  said  Old  Madame.  "  I  am  prouder  of 
my  penniless  son  than  of  any  merchant  prince  with  a 
false  oath  on  his  soul."  And  her  own  contentment 
seemed  to  her  all  that  could  be  asked.  She  never 
thought  of  regretting  the  matter;  but  she  despised  the 
General  Government  more  than  ever,  and  would  have 
shown  blue-lights  to  the  enemy,  had  he  been  near  and 
wanted  a  channel,  were  it  not  that  he  was  Cousin 
Louis's  enemy  as  well. 

Alas  !  a  bitterer  enemy  was  near.  One  tempestuous 
winter's  night  the  minute-guns  were  heard  off  Wreck- 
er's Reef, — and  who  but  St.  Jean  must  lead  the  rescue? 
Hope,  cloaked  and  on  her  housetop,  with  the  glass 
saw  it  all ;  saw  St.  Jean  climb  the  reef  as  the  moon  ran 
out  on  the  end  of  a  flying  scud  of  cloud  to  glance  on 
the  foam-edged  roll  of  the  black  wild  seas ,  saw  the 
others  following  along  the  sides  of  the  ice-sheathed 
rock  to  carry  succor  to  the  freezing  castaways,  and 
saw,  too,  a  plunging  portion  of  the  wreck  strike  one 
form,  and  hurl  it  headlong.  It  was  her  husband. 
And  although  he  was  brought  back  alive,  yet  the  blow 
upon  his  breast,  and  the  night's  exposure  in  the  icy 
waters,  in  his  disheartened  state,  did  deathly  work 
upon  St.  Jean,  and  he  was  laid  low  and  helpless  long 
before  his  release. 

Then  Elizabeth  sold  the  hay-fields  along  the  main- 
land to  pay  the  doctor's  bills  and  the  druggist's,  to  try 
softer  air  for  the  prostrated  man,  to  bring  him  home 
again.  She  had  loved  to  see  the  sun  ripening  the  long 
stretch  of  their  rich  grasses  with  reds  and  purples,  with 
russets  and  fresh-bursting  green  again,  as  far  as  eye 
could  see.  But  she  forgot  she  had  ever  owned  them, 


58  OLD  MADAME. 

or  owning  them  had  lost  them.  They  were  there  still 
when  she  gazed  that  way.  Then  the  Thierry  place  fol- 
lowed, and  the  little  Hasard  houses, — they  had  not  yet 
learned  how  to  be  poor. 

"  There  is  the  quarry,"  said  St.  Jean,  his  heart  sore 
as  his  hand  was  feeble.  "  We  cannot  work  it  now." 

"  The  grocer  took  it  long  ago,"  said  Elizabeth. 

"  And  the  Podarzhon  orchard  ?  " 

"  Oh,  the  Podarzhon  orchard  !  Yes,  your  great- 
grandsire  used  to  call  it  his  pot  of  money.  Well,  the 
trees  were  old  and  ran  to  wood, — your  father  renewed 
so  many  !  But  the  apples  had  lost  their  flavor, — what 
apples  they  used  to  be  !  Oh,  yes,  we  ate  up  the  Pod- 
arzhon orchard  some  time  since.  And  the  lamb- 
pasture  brought  the  children  their  great-coats  and 
shoes  last  year.  And  the  barley-field—  How  lucky 
that  we  happened  to  have  them,  my  dear  !  " 

"  And  I  dying,"  groaned  St.  Jean.  "  What,  what  is 
to  become  of  them  !  " 

"  To  become  of  them  !  "  said  the  unfaltering  spirit. 
"  Is  there  question  what  will  become  of  any  of  the 
blood  of  Chaslesmarie  ?  " 

A  night  came,  at  length,  when  Hope  fainted  in  her 
arms — Elizabeth's  last  child  was  dead.  "  A  white 
name  and  a  white  soul,"  said  Elizabeth.  "  I  -thank 
God  I  knew  him  ! "  And  the  Geoffrey  field  went  to 
bury  him.  "  I  shall  be  with  him  soon,"  she  said,  smil- 
ing, not  weeping.  "  Heaven  can  hardly  be  more  holy 
than  he  made  earth  seem,  he  was  so  like  a  saint !  " 
After  that,  she  felt  as  if  he  had  no  more  than  gone  on 
one  of  his  long  voyages.  She  sold  the  few  acres  of  the 
Millet  farm  in  a  month  or  two;  they  had  nothing  else 
to  live  on  now  but  such  small  sales ;  and  from  a  por- 
tion of  the  proceeds  she  put  aside,  in  a  little*  hair- 
covered  coffer,  her  grave-clothes,  with  the  money,  in 
crisp  bank-notes,  that  should  one  day  suffice  to  lay  her 
away  decently  between  her  graves.  And  then  she  and 
Hope  sat  down  and  spent  their  days  telling  over  the 
virtues  of  their  dead. 

It  was  a  summer  day,  when  the  late  wild-roses  were 
just  drooping  on  their  stems  and  the  wanton  black- 
berry vines  were  everywhere  putting  out  their  arms, 
and  all  things  hung  a  little  heavily  in  the  still  air 
before  the  thunder-storm,  that  Elizabeth  climbed  alone, 


B  Y  HARRIET  PRESCOTT  SPOFFORD.  59 

with  her  staff,  to  the  dimple  among  the  rocks  where 
her  dear  ones  lay.  She  paused  at  the -top  to  look 
around  her.  Here  swept  the  encircling  river,  with  the 
red  rocks  rising  from  its  azure  ;  beyond  it  the  main- 
land lifted  softly  swelling  fields  that  had  once  belonged 
to  her  ancestors  of  glorious  memory ;  far  away  to  the 
south  and  east,  over  its  ledges  and  reefs  mounting 
purple  to  the  bending  sky,  stretched  the  sea,  its  foam- 
ing fields  also  once  theirs  and  yielding  them  its  rev- 
enues. Now, — nothing  but  these  graves,  she  said  ;  the 
graves  of  renown,  of  honor,  of  lofty  purity.  "  No,  no," 
said  Elizabeth,  aloud.  "Renown,  honor,  purity  are 
not  buried  here.  St.  Jean's  children  cannot  be  robbed 
of  that  inheritance.  Fire  that  still  burns  must  burst 
through  the  ashes.  It  is  fallen  indeed  ;  but  with  these 
children  it  shall  begin  its  upward  way  again  !  " 

"  Its  upward  way  again,"  said  a  deep  voice.  And, 
half-starting,  she  turned  to  see  old  Ben  Benvoisie  sit- 
ting on  one  of  the  graves  below  her. 

"  So  you  are  satisfied  at  last,  Ben  Benvoisie,"  said 
Elizabeth,  after  a  moment's  gazing. 

"  Satisfied  with  what  ?  " 

"  Satisfied  that  not  one  child  is  left  to  my  arms,  and 
that,  when  the  mortgage  on  the  Mansion  falls  due,  not 
one  acre  of  my  birthright  is  left  to  my  name." 

"  Do  you  think  I  did  it,  then,  Old  Madame  ?  "  asked 
the  man,  pulling  his  cloak  about  him.  "  Am  I  one  of 
the  forces  of  nature  ?  You  flatter  me  !  Am  I  the 
pride,  the  waste,  the  love  of  pleasure,  the  heedlessness 
of  the  morrow,  the  self-confidence  of  your  race,  that 
forgot  there  was  a  world  outside  the  sound  of  the  name 
of  Chaslesmarie  ?  Did  I  take  one  life  away  from 
you  ?  "  he  cried,  as  he  tottered  to  his  stick.  "  Nay, 
once  I  would  have  given  you  my  own  !  Did  I  take 
a  penny  of  your  wealth  ?  I  am  as  poor  to-day  as 
I  was  seventy  years  ago  when  I  laid  my  life  at  your 
feet,  and  you  laughed  and  scorned  and  spurned  it,  and 
thought  so  lightly  of  it  you  forgot  it ! " 

Elizabeth  was'  silent  a  little.  Her  hood  fell  back, 
and  there  streamed  out  a  long  lock  of  her  silver  hair 
in  which  still  burned  a  gleam  of  gold  ;  her  black  eyes, 
softer  than  once  they  were,  met  quietly  the  gaze  that 
was  reading  the  writing  of  the  lines  cut  in  her  face, 


60  OLD  MADAME. 

like  the  lines  whipped  into  stone  by  the  sharp  sands 
of  the  desert. 

"  It  was  not  these  leveling  days,"  she  said.  "  I  was 
the  child  of  nobles 

"  And  I  was  a  worm  at  your  feet.  A  worm  with  a 
sting,  you  found.  But  it  was  not  you  I  cursed,"  he' 
cried  in  a  horse  passion, — "  not  you,  Elizabeth  Cham- 
pernoune  !  It  was  the  master ~" 

"Loujs  and  I  were  one,"  she  answered  him.  "  We 
are  one  still.  A  part  of  him  is  here  above  the  sod ;  a 
part  of  me  is  there  below  it.  We  shall  rest  beside 
each  other  soon,  as  we  did  every  night  of  forty  years. 
Soon  you,  too,  Ben  Benvoisie,  will  go  to  your  long 
sleep,  and  neither  your  bannering  nor  your  blessing  will 
help  or  hurt  the  generation  that  is  to  come." 

"  Will  it  not  ?  "  he  said.  And  he  laughed  a  low 
laugh  half  under  his  breath.  "  Yet  the  generations 
repeat  themselves.  Look  there  !  "  And  he  wheeled 
about  suddenly  and  pointed  with  his  stick,  as  if  it  had 
been  an  old  wizard's  wand.  "Look  yonder  at  the 
beach,"  he  said.  "  On  the  flat  bowlder  by  which  we 
found  the  bed  of  garnets  when  you  and  I  were  too  young 
— eighty  years  ago,  is  it  ? — to  know  that  you  were  the 
child  of  nobles,  and  I  a  worm  !  " 

And  there,  on  the  low,  flat  rock,  distinct  against  the 
turbid  darkness  of  the  sky,  sat  the  pretty  Barbara,  a 
brown-eyed  lass  of  sixteen,  and  the  arm  about  her 
shoulder  was  the  arm  of  young  Ben  Benvoisie.  the  old 
man's  grandson,  and  his  face,  a  handsome  tawny  face 
with  the  blue  fire  of  its  eyes,  was  bent  toward  hers — 
and  hers  were  lifted. 

"Leave  them  to  their  dream  a  little  while,  Old 
Madame,  before  you  wake  them,"  said  the  old  man,  in 
a  strangely  altered  voice. 

"  I  shall  not  wake  them,"  said  Elizabeth. 

And  they  were  silent  a  moment  again,  looking  down 
at  the  figures  on  the  rocks.  And  the  two  faces  that 
had  bent  together  there,  had  clung  together  in  their 
first  long  sweet  kiss  of  love,  parted,  with  the  redness 
of  innocent  blushes  on  them,  and  were  raised  toward 
the  distant  sea,  now  dimly  streaked  with  foam  and 
wind. 

"  I  have  seen  ninety  years,"  said  old  Ben  Benvoisie. 
"  And  you,  Old  Madame  ?  " 


BY  HARRIET  PRESCOTT  SPOFFORD.  6 1 

"  I  have  lived  eighty-five,"  she  answered,  absently. 

"Long  years,  long  years,"  he  said.  "  But,  at  last," 
he  said,  "  at  last,  Dame  Elizabeth,  my  flesh  and  blood 
and  yours  are  one !  " 

Elizabeth  turned  to  move  away,  but  his  voice  again 
arrested  her.  "  Look  ye  !  "  he  said.  "  When  those 
two  are  one,  once  and  forever,  when  Chaslesmarie  is 
sunk  in  Benvoisie,  when  you  are  conquered  at  last,  I 
shall  tell  them  where  Master  Louis  buried  his  moneys, 
Old  Madame  !  " 

She  had  been  going  on  without  a  word;  but  she 
stopped  and  looked  back  over  her  shoulder.  "  Only 
they  are  conquered,  Ben  Benvoisie,  who  contend,"  she 
said.  "  And  I  have  never  contended.  Perhaps  I  had 
rather  see  her  dead.  I  do  not  know.  But  Barbara 
has  her  own  life  to  live  in  these  changed  times.  She 
is  too  young,  I  am  too  old,  to  make  her  live  mine. 
And  were  I  conquered,"  she  cried  in  a  great  voice,  "  it 
is  not  by  you,  but  by  age  and  the  slow  years  and 
death  !  I  defy  you,  as  I  have  defied  Fate  !  For,  take 
the  bread  from  my  mouth,  the  mantle  from  my  back, 
yet  while  I  live  the  current  in  my  veins  remains,"  cried 
the  old  Titaness,  "  and  while  I  live  that  current  will 
always  run  with  the  courage  and  the  honor  of  the 
Chaslesmaries  and  Champernounes  !  " 

"  Not  so,"  said  the  other.  "  Conquered  you  are. 
Conquered  because  your  race  ceases.  Because  Chasles- 
marie is  swallowed  up  in  Benvoisie,  as  death  is  swal- 
lowed up  in  victory  !  " 

But  she  had  gone  on  into  the  gathering  darkness  of 
the  storm,  from  which  the  young  people  fled  up  the 
shore,  and  heard  no  more.  And  the  storm  burst 
about  the  island,  and  the  old  Chaslesmarie  Mansion 
answered  it  in  roof  and  rafter,  trembling  as  if  to  the 
buffets  of  striving  elemental  foes.  And  all  at  once 
the  flames  wrapped  it ;  and  gilded  wainscot,  Dutch 
carving,  ancestral  portraits,  were  only  a  pile  of  hissing 
cinders  when  the  morning  sun  glittered  on  rain-drops, 
rocks,  and  river.  And  Elizabeth,  with  her  little  hair- 
coffer  of  cere-clothes  and  money,  had  gone  to  Hope's 
cottage,  and  old  Ben  Benvoisie  was  found  stretched 
upon  the  grave  where  she  had  seen  him  sitting.  And 
they  never  knew  where  Cousin  Louis  had  buried  his 
money. 


62  OLD  MADAME. 

"Miss  Barbara!  Barbara,  honey!"  called  old 
Phillis,  again,  a  little  before  noon.  "  Where's  this 
you's  hiding  at  ?  Old  Madame  wants  ye.  Don't  ye 
hear  me  tell  ?  " 

And  pretty  Barbara  came  hesitatingly  up  the  rocks 
that  made  each  dwelling  in  the  place  look  as  if  it  were 
a  part  of  the  island  itself,  tearful  and  rosy  and  spark- 
lino-.  And  by  her  side,  grave  as  became  him  that  day, 
and  erect  and  proud  as  his  grandparent,  was  old  Ben 
Benvoisie's  grandson. 

"  Barbara,"  said  the  Old  Madame  presently,  break- 
ing through  the  reverie  caused  by  their  first  few  words, 
"  did  my  eyes  deceive  me  yesterday  ?  Have  you  cut 
adrift  ?  Have  you  made  up  your  mind  that  you  can 
do  without  fine  dresses  and  silver  dishes  and " 

"Why,  I  always  have,"  said  Barbara,  looking  up 
simply. 

"  That  is  true,"  said  Elizabeth.     "  And   so  they  do 

not  count  for  much.     And  you  think  you  know  what 

love  is — you  baby?     You  really  think  you   love  this 

'  sailor-lad  ?      Tell   me,   how   much   you  do    love  him, 

child  ?  " 

"As  much,  Madame  dear,"  said  Barbara,  shyly, 
dimpling,  glancing  half  askance,  "  perhaps  as  much, 
grandmamma,  as  you  loved  Cousin  Louis." 

"Say  you  so?  Then  it  were  enough  to  carry  its 
light  through  life  and  throw  it  far  across  the  dark 
shadows  of  death,  my  child  !  And  you,"  she  said,  turn 
ing  suddenly  and  severely  to  young  Ben.  "  Is  it  for  life, 
or  for  a  holiday,  a  pleasuring,  a  pastime  ? " 

He  looked  at  her  as  if,  in  spite  of  the  claims  ot 
parentage  and  her  all  but  century  of  reign,  he  ex- 
amined her  right  to  ask.  "  Since  Barbara  promised 
me,"  said  he  at  last,  "  I  have  felt,  Old  Madame,  like 
one  inside  a  church." 

"  Something  in  him,"  said  Elizabeth.  "  Not 
altogether  the  sweetness  of  the  senses,  but  the  sacred- 
ness  of  the  sacrament." 

And  although  they  were  not  married  for  twice  a 
twelvemonth,  Elizabeth  considered  that  she  had 
married  them  that  morning.  And  the  reddest  bonnet- 
rouge  among  the  fishermen  had  a  thrill  as  if  all  thrones 
were  leveled  when,  at  old  Ben  Benvoisie's  funeral, — in 
the  simple  procession  where  none  rode, — after  young 


B  Y  HARRIE  T  FRESCO  TT  SPOFFORD.  63 

Ben  and  Barbara,  they  saw  Hope  and  Old  Madame 
walk,  as  became  the  next  of  kin. 

And  so  one  year  and  another  crept  into  the  past. 
And  at  length  Old  Madame  fell  ill. 

"  I  am  going  now,  Hope,"  she  said.  "  I  should  like 
to  see  Barbara's  baby  before  I  go.  But  remember  that 
there  is  money  for  my  burial  in  the  little  coffer.  And 
there  is  still  the  Dernier's  wood-land  to  sell " 

"  Do  not  think  of  such  things  now,"  said  Hope. 
"  God  will  take  care  of  us  in  some  way.  He  always 
has.  We  are  as  much  a  part  of  the  universe  as  the 
rest  of  it." 

"  We  are  put  in  this  world  to  think  of  such  things," 
said  Elizabeth.  "  We  are  put  in  this  world  to  live  in 
it,  not  to  live  in  another.  Now  I  am  going  to  another. 
We  shall  see  what  that  will  be.  From  this  I  have  had 
all  it  had  to  give.  I  came  into  it  with  the  reverence 
and  revenue  of  princes.  I  go  out  of  it  a  beggar,"  she 
cried  in  a  tone  that  tore  Hope's  heart.  "  I  came  into 
it  in  purple — I  go  out  of  it  in  rags " 

Rags.  Before  they  laid  her  away  with  those  who 
had  made  part  of  her  career  of  splendor  and  of  sorrow, 
they  opened  the  little  hair-coffer, — moths  had  eaten  the 
grave-clothes  and  a  mouse  had  made  its  nest  in  the 
bank-notes.  And  to-day  nothing  is  left  of  Chasles- 
marie  or  Champernoune — not  even  a  name  and  hardly 
a  memory;  and  the  blood  ennobled  by  the  King  of 
France  is  the  common  blood  of  the  fishers  of  the  island 
given  once  with  all  its  serfs  and  vassals — the  island- 
fishers  who  sell  you  a  string  of  herring  for  a  shilling. 


HEAR  Y  SOULT. 


BY 


REBECCA  HARDING  DAYIS. 


REBECCA  HARDING  DAVIS. 


IT  is  not  very  easy  for  the  uninitiated  to  estimate 
the  amount  of  brain  work  accomplished  by  those  who 
have  spent  any  considerable  time  in  the  practical  pro- 
fession of  journalism.  In  this  class  we  must  place 
Mrs.  Davis,  and  therefore  we  can  only  approximate  a 
judgment  as  to  the  net  result  of  a  lifetime  devoted  to 
letters,  much  of  it  impersonal,  and  its  weight  and 
importance  therefore  unknown  to  the  hungry  public, 
whose  capacity  for  digesting  printed  matter  appears  to 
be  unbounded. 

Rebecca  Harding  was  born  in  Wheeling,  West  Vir- 
ginia, June  24,  1831.  Probably  some  of  her  youthful 
writings  have  escaped  our  research,  but  in  1861  ap- 
peared in  the  Atlantic  Monthly  that  interesting  serial 
story,  entitled  "  Life  in  the  Iron  Mills,"  which  was 
subsequently  published  in  book  form ;  this  work 
showed  an  intimate  acquaintance  with  the  class  it  pro- 
fessed to  delineate,  and  gave  fine  scope  to  her  especial 
talent  of  character  analysis.  This  was  followed  in  the 
same  periodical  by  "  A  Story  of  To-day  "  ;  this  was 
afterwards  republished  as  a  book  under  the  title  of 
"  Margaret  Howth,"  in  1862.  Two  years  later  Re- 
becca Harding  married  Mr.  L.  Clark  Davis.  He  was  a 
journalist,  connected  with  the  Inquirer,  published  in 
Philadelphia;  he  was  also  a  contributor  to  several 
magazines.  Until  about  1869,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Davis 
continued  to  make  Philadelphia  their  home,  but  after 
this  period  Mrs.  Davis  was  attached  to  the  editorial 
staff  of  the  New  York  Daily  Tribune,  and  came  to  the 
metropolis  to  reside.  In  1867  she  had  given  to  the 
world  that  thrilling  story  "  Waiting  for  the  Verdict," 
which  was  published  in  Philadelphia,  in  1867  ;  then 
followed  "Dallas  Galbraith,"  in  1868;  "John  An- 
dross,"  in  1874.  "  The  Captain's  Story,"  which  was 
published  in  the  Galaxy,  was  founded  on  fact ;  as  was 
69 


7O  REBECCA  HARDING  DAVIS. 

also  a  story  entitled  "The  Faded  Leaf  of  History," 
which  was  truly  what  it  professed  to  be,  a  narrative 
found  in  an  old  pamphlet  in  the  Philadelphia 
library. 

Mrs.  Davis  is  wonderfully  gifted  in  the  matter  of  dis- 
criminating mental  idiosyncrasies.  One  of  her  strong 
characters  is  the  smooth  hypocrite,  who,  posing  as  the 
friend  of  the  suffering  classes,  is  in  fact  only  intent  on 
fleecing  the  public,  through  enlisting  their  sympathies, 
and  collecting  moneys  for  his  ever  abortive  schemes  of 
benevolence ;  this  sort  of  character  is  not  new  in  fic- 
tion but  it  has  never  been  more  finely  diagnosed  than 
by  Mrs.  Davis.  Another  skilful  mind  portraiture  is 
that  of  the  female  adventuress,  who  appears  at  one 
time  as  a  materializing  spiritualist,  and  then  again, 
creeping  into  society  in  the  guise  of  a  Russian  Prin- 
cess. There  are  moral  hints  and  suggestions  all 
through,  without  being  offensively  prominent ;  but  there 
are  two  characters  which  are  of  practical  interest  to  the 
lovers  of  psychological  studies — one,  the  doting  old 
father  who  illustrates  to  perfection  the  inane  dogma- 
tism of  unreasoning  affection,  who,  in  a  moribund  con- 
dition, insists  on  seeing  his  daughter  "  comfortably  set- 
tled before  he  goes,"  by  compelling  her,  through  her 
affection  for  himself,  to  marry  a  man  for  whom  she 
felt  nothing — if  not  a  chronic  repulsion.  The  other 
psychic  study  is  less  common  ;  an  intelligent  educated 
man  who  believes  himself  to  have  inherited  insanity 
through  his  mother's  family : — "  All  the  Davidges  had 
brain  disease  as  they  approached  middle  age."  Con- 
sequently as  he  approached  middle  age  he  felt  the 
symptoms  coming  on  him  :  he  had  conscientiously 
declined  to  marry,  foreseeing  his  evil  fate.  As  the 
symptoms  grew  upon  him,  he  takes  leave  of  all  his 
friends  and  starts  upon  an  extended  tour  of  travel. 
But  one  was  on  board  the  steamer  who  had  known  him 
from  infancy,  and  who  at  the  last  moment  informs  him 
that  she  whom  he  had  always  believed  to  be  his 
mother,  was  only  his  step-mother,  "he  had  no  Davidge 
blood  in  his  veins."  His  cure  was  instantaneous  ;  all 
the  dreaded  symptoms  disappeared.  His  imagination 
being  corrected,  his  brain  was  also. 

Mrs.  Davis  has  resided  of  late  years  in  Philadelphia, 


REBECCA  HARDING  DAVIS.  J\ 

The  absence  of  a  portrait  of  her  from  this  book  is 
due  to  the  fact  that  she  has  never  yet  consented  to 
have  it  taken.  Her  words  in  refusing  it,  are  :  "  I  am 
sorry  to  disappoint  you,  but  as  I  do  not  give  my 
photograph  to  my  children,  you  cannot  be  offended 
with  me." 


TIRAR  Y  SOULT. 


ROBERT  KNIGHT,  who  was  born,  bred,  and 
trained  in  New  England,  suckled  on  her  creeds  and 
weaned  on  her  doubts,  went  directly  from  college  to  a 
Louisiana  plantation.  The  change,  as  he  felt,  was  ex- 
treme. 

He  happened  to  go  in  this  way.  He  was  a  civil 
engineer.  A  company  was  formed  among  the  planters 
in  the  Gulf  parishes  to  drain  their  marshes  in  order  to 
establish  large  rice-farms.  James  B.  Eads,  who  knew 
Knight,  gave  his  name  to  them  as  that  of  a  promising 
young  fellow  who  was  quite  competent  to  do  the  sim- 
ple work  that  they  required,  and  one,  too,  who  would 
probably  give  more  zeal  and  time  to  it  than  would  a 
man  whose  reputation  was  assured. 

After  Mr.  Knight  had  thoroughly  examined  the 
scene  of  operations,  he  was  invited  by  the  president 
of  the  company,  M.  de  Fourgon,  to  go  with  him  to  his 
plantation,  the  Lit  de  Fleurs,  where  he  would  meet  the 
directors  of  the  company. 

"  The  change  is  great  and  sudden,"  he  wrote  to  his 
confidential  friend  Miss  Cramer.  "  From  Boston  to 
the  Bed  of  Flowers,  from  the  Concord  School  of  Phi- 
losophy to  the  companionship  of  ex-slaveholders,  from 
Emerson  to  Gayarre  !  I  expected  to  lose  my  breath 
mentally.  I  expected  to  find  the  plantation  a  vast 
exhibit  of  fertility,  disorder,  and  dirt;  the  men,  illiter- 
ate fire-eaters  ;  the  women,  houris  such  as  our  fathers 
used  to  read  of  in  Tom  Moore.  Instead,  I  find  the 
farm,  huge,  it  is  true,  but  orderly ;  the  corn-fields  are 
laid  out  with  the  exact  neatness  of  a  Dutch  garden. 
The  works  are  run  by  skilled  German  workmen.  The 
directors  are  shrewd  and  wide-awake.  Madame  de 
Fourgon  is  a  fat,  commonplace  little  woman.  There 
are  other  women — the  house  swarms  with  guests — but 
not  an  houri  among  them.  Till  to  morrow.  R.  K." 
73 


74  TIKAR  Y  SOULT. 

The  conclusion  was  abrupt,  but  Knight  had  reached 
the  bottom  of  the  page  of  his  writing-pad.  He  tore  it 
off,  p.ut  it  in  a  business-envelope,  and  mailed  it.  He 
and  Miss  Cramer  observed  a  certain  manly  disregard 
to  petty  conventionalities.  He  wrote  to  her  on  the 
backs  of  old  envelopes,  scraps  of  wrapping-paper,  any- 
thing that  came  first  to  hand.  She  liked  it.  He  was 
poor  and  she  was  poor,  and  they  were  two  good  fel- 
lows roughing  it  together.  They  delighted  in  express- 
ing their  contempt  for  elegant  knick-knackery  of  any 
sort,  in  dress,  literature,  or  religion. 

" Give  me  the  honest — the  solid!"  was  Emma  Cra- 
mer's motto,  and  Knight  thought  the  sentiment  very  high 
and  fine.  Emma  herself  was  a  little  person,  with  an 
insignificant  nose,  and  a  skin,  hair,  and  eyes  all  of  one 
yellowish  tint.  A  certain  fluffiness  and  piquancy  of 
dress  would  have  made  her  positively  pretty.  But  she 
went  about  in  a  tightly  fitting  gray  gown,  with  a  white 
pocket-handkerchief  pinned  about  her  neck,  and  her 
hair  in  a  small  knob  on  top. 

But,  blunt  as  she  was,  she  did  not  like  the  blunt  end- 
ing of  this  letter. 

What  were  the  women  like  who  were  not  houris  ? 
He  might  have  known  that  she  would  have  some  curi- 
osity about  them.  Had  they  any  intellectual  training 
whatever?  She  supposed  they  could  dance  and  sing 
and  embroider  like  those  poor  things  in  harems 

Miss  Cramer  lived  on  a  farm  near  the  village  of 
Throop.  That  evening,  after  she  had  finished  her 
work,  she  took  the  letter  over  to  read  to  Mrs.  Knight. 
There  were  no  secrets  in  any  letter  to  her  from  Robert 
which  his  mother  could  not  share.  They  were  all  inti- 
mate friends  together,  Mrs.  Knight  being,  perhaps,  the 
youngest  and  giddiest  of  the  three.  The  Knights 
knew  how  her  uncle  overworked  the  girl,  for  Emma 
was  an  orphan,  and  dependent  on  him.  They  knew 
all  the  kinds  of  medicine  she  took  for  her  dyspepsia, 
and  exactly  how  much  she  earned  by  writing  book- 
reviews  for  a  Boston  paper.  Emma,  too,  could  tell  to 
a  dollar  what  Robert's  yearly  expenses  had  been  at 
college.  They  had  all  shared  in  the  terrible  anxiety 
lest  no  position  should  offer  for  him,  and  rejoiced  to- 
ge-ther  in  this  opening  in  Louisiana. 


B  Y  REBECCA  HARDING  DA  VIS.  75 

Mrs.  Knight  ran  to  meet  her.  "  Oh,  you  have  had  a 
letter,  too  ?  Here  is  mine  !  " 

She  read  the  letter  with  nervous  nods  and  laughs  of 
exultation,  the  butterfly-bow  of  yellow  ribbon  in  her 
cap  fluttering  as  if  in  triumph.  Emma  sat  down  on  the 
steps  of  the  porch  with  an  odd,  chilled  feeling  that  she 
was  somehow  shut  out  from  the  victory. 

"  The  '  Bed  of  Flowers?"  What  a  peculiar  name 
for  a  farm !  And  how  odd  it  was  in  this  Mr.  de  Four- 
gon  to  ask  Robert  to  stay  at  his  house  !  Do  you  sup- 
pose he  will  charge  him  boarding,  Emma  ? " 

"No,  I  think  not." 

"  Well,  Robert  will  save  nothing  by  that.  He  must 
make  it  up  somehow.  I  wouldn't  have  him  under  obli- 
gation to  the  man  for  his  keep.  I've  written  to  him  to 
put  his  salary  into  the  Throop  Savings  Bank  till  he  wants 
to  invest  it.  He  will  have  splendid  chances  for  invest- 
ment, travelling  over  the  country — East,  West,  South — 
everywhere  !  House  full  of  women  ?  I  hope  he  will 
not  be  falling  in  love  in  a  hurry.  Robert  ought  to 
marry  well  now," 

Miss  Cramer  said  nothing.  The  sun  had  set,  and  a 
cold  twilight  had  settled  down  over  the  rocky  fields, 
with  their  thin  crops  of  hay.  To  the  right  was  Mrs. 
Knight's  patch,  divided  into  tiny  beds  of  potatoes, 
corn,  and  cabbage.  As  Emma's  eyes  fell  on  it  she 
remembered  how  many  years  she  had  helped  the  widow 
rake  and  weed  that  field,  and  how  they  had  triumphed 
in  every  shilling  which  they  made  by  the  garden-stuff. 
For  Robert — all  for  Robert ! 

Now  he  had  laid  his  hand  on  the  world's  neck  and 
conquered  it !  North  and  West,  and  that  great  tropical 
South,  with  its  flowers  and  houris — all  were  open  to 
him  !  She  looked  around  the  circle  of  barren  fields. 
He  had  gone  out  of  doors,  and  she  was  shut  in  ! 

She  bade  his  mother  good-night,  and  went  down  the 
darkening  road  homeward.  What  a  fool  she  was ! 
The  fact  that  Robert  had  a  good  salary  could  not 
change  the  whole  order  of  the  world  in  a  day.  Her 
comradeship  with  Knight,  their  plans,  their  sympathy — 
this  was  the  order  of  the  world  which  seemed  eternal 
and  solid  to  poor  Emma. 

"  I  am  his  friend,"  she  told  herself  now.  "  If  he  had 
twenty  wives,  none  of  them  could  take  my  place." 


76  TIRAR  Y  SOULT. 

Now  Knight  had  not  hinted  at  the  possibility  of 
wiving  in  his  letter.  There  had  never  been  a  word  or 
glance  of  love  making  between  him  and  Emma;  yet 
she  saw  him,  quite  distinctly  now,  at  the  altar,  and 
beside  him  a  black-eyed  houri. 

She  entered  the  farm-house  by  the  kitchen.  There 
was  the  bacon,  cut  ready  to  cook  for  breakfast,  and  the 
clothes  dampened  for  ironing.  Up  in  her  own  bare 
chamber  were  paper  and  ink  and  two  books  for  review 
— "Abstract  of  Greek  Philosophy"  and  "  Subdrain- 
age." 

These  reviews  were  one  way  in  which  she  had  tried 
to  interest  him.  Interest  him  !  Greek  philosophy ! 
Drainage  ! 

She  threw  the  books  on  the  floor,  and,  running  to 
the  glass,  unloosened  her  hair  and  ran  her  fingers 
through  it,  tore  the  handkerchief  from  her  neck, 
scanned  with  a  breathless  eagerness  her  pale  eyes,  her 
freckled  skin,  and  shapeless  nose,  and  then,  burying 
her  face  in  her  hands,  turned  away  into  the  dark. 

The  night  air  that  was  so  thin  and  chilly  in  Throop, 
blew  over  the  Lit  de  Fleurs  wet  and  heavy  with  the 
scents,  good  and  bad,  of  the  Gulf  marshes.  Madame 
de  Fourgon's  guests  had  left  the  supper-table,  and 
were  seated  on  the  low  gallery  which  ran  around  the 
house,  or  lounged  in  the  hammocks  that  swung  under 
the  huge  magnolias  on  the  lawn.  There  were  one  or 
two  women  of  undoubted  beauty  among  them ;  but 
Robert  Knight  was  not  concerned,  that  night,  with  the 
good  or  ill-looks  of  any  woman,  either  in  Throop  or 
Louisiana.  He  was  amused  by  a  new  companion,  a 
Monsieur  Tirar,  who  had  ridden  over  from  a  neighbor- 
ing plantation.  Knight  at  first  took  him  for  an  over 
grown  boy  ;  but  on  coming  close  to  him,  he  perceived 
streaks  of  gray  in  the  close-cut  hair  and  beard. 

Tirar  had  sung  and  acted  a  comic  song,  after  dinner, 
at  which  the  older  men  laughed  as  at  the  capers  of  L 
monkey.  While  they  were  at  cards  he  played  croquet 
with  the  children.  The  women  sent  him  on  errands. 
"  Jose,  my  thimble  is  in  the  library  !  "  "  Jose',  do  see 
where  the  nurse  has  taken  baby  !  "etc. 

A  chair  had  been  brought  out  now  for  M.  de  Four- 
gon's aunt,  an  old  woman  with  snowy  hair  and  delicate, 


BY  REBECCA  HARDING  DAVIS.  77 

high  features.  Jose  flew  to  bring  her  a  shawl  and 
wrapped  it  about  her.  She  patted  him  on  his  fat 
cheek,  telling  Knight,  as  he  capered  away,  how  invalu- 
able was  the  cher  enfant, 

"  He  made  that  Creole  sauce  to-day.  Ah,  the  petit 
gourmand  has  many  secrets  of  crabs  and  soups.  He 
says  the  chefs  in  Paris  confide  in  him,  but  they  are 
original,  monsieur ;  they  are  born  in  Jose's  leetle 
brain  " — tapping  her  own  forehead. 

"  Ah,  hear  him  now  !  'T  is  the  voice  of  a  seraph  !  " 
She  threw  up  her  hands,  to  command  silence  in  earth 
and  sky  ;  leaning  back  and  closing  her  eyes,  while  the 
little  man,  seated  with  his  guitar  'at  the  feet  of  a  pretty 
girl,  sang.  Even  Knight's  sluggish  nerves  were 
thrilled.  He  had  never  heard  such  a  voice  as  this. 
It  wrung  his  heart  with  its  dateless  pain  and  pathos. 
Ashamed  of  his  emotion,  he  turned  to  go  away.  But 
there  was  a  breathless  silence  about  him.  The  Cre- 
oles all  love  music,  and  Jose's  voice  was  famous 
throughout  the  Gulf  parishes.  Even  the  negro  nurses 
stood  staring  and  open-mouthed. 

The  song  ended  and  Tirar  lounged  into  the  house. 

"  Queer  dog  !  "  said  M.  de  Fourgon.  "  He  will  not 
touch  a  guitar  again  perhaps  for  months." 

"  He  would  sing  if  I  ask  it,"  said  the  old  lady.  "  He 
has  reverence  for  the  age." 

M.  de  Fourgon,  behind  her,  lifted  his  eyebrows. 
"Jose',"  he  said,  aside  to  Knight,  "is  a  good  fellow 
enough  up  here  among  the  women  and  babies  ;  but 
with  his  own  crew,  at  the  St.  Charles,  there  is  no  more 
rakehelly  scamp  in  New  Orleans." 

"  Is  he  a  planter  ?  "  asked  the  curious  New  Eng- 
lancler.  Madame  Dessaix's  keen  ears  caught  the 
question. 

"  Ah,  the  poor  lad  !  he  has  no  land,  not  an  acre  ! 
His  father  was  a  Spaniard,  Ruy  Tirar,  who  married 
Bonaventura  Soult.  The  Soult  and  Tirar  plantations 
were  immense  on  the  Bayou  Sara.  Jose's  father  had 
his  share.  But  crevasse — cards — the  war — all  gone  !  " 
— opening  wide  her  hands.  "  When  your  government 
declared  peace,  it  left  our  poor  Jose  at  twenty  with 
the  income  of  a  beggar." 

"  But   that   was   fifteen   years   ago,"   said    Knight. 


78  TIRAR  Y  SOULT. 

"  Could  he  not  retrieve  his  fortune  by  his  profession — 
business  ?  What  does  he  do  ?  " 

"  Do?  do  ?  " — she  turned  an  amazed,  perplexed  face 
from  one  to  the  other.  "Does  he  think  that  Jose  shall 
work  ?  Jose  !  Mon  Dieu  !  " 

"  Tirar,"  said  M.  de  Fourgon,  laughing,  "  is  not  pre- 
cisely a  business  man,  Mr.  Knight.  He  has  countless 
friends  and  kinsfolk.  We  are  all  cousins  of  the  Tirars 
or  Soults.  He  is  welcome  everywhere." 

'•Oh!  "said  Knight,  with  a 'significant  nod.  Even 
in  his  brief  stay  in  this  neighborhood,  he  had  found 
other  men  than  Jose  living  in  absolute  idleness  in  a 
community  which  was  no  longer  wealthy.  They  were 
neither  old,  ill,  nor  incapable.  It  was  simply  not  their 
humor  to  work.  They  were  supported,  and  as  carefully 
guarded  as  pieces  of  priceless  porcelain.  It  is  a  lax, 
extravagant  feature  of  life,  as  natural  to  Louisiana  as 
it  is  impossible  to  Connecticut. 

It  irritated  Knight,  yet  it  attracted  him,  as  any  nov- 
elty does  a  young  man.  He  turned  away  from  his 
companions,  and  sauntered  up  and  down  in  the  twi- 
light. To  live  without  work  on  those  rich,  prodigal 
prairies,  never  to  think  of  to-morrow,  to  give  without 
stint,  even  to  lazy  parasites — there  was  something 
royal  about  that.  It  touched  his  fancy.  He  had. 
known,  remembered,  nothing  but  Throop  and  hard 
work  for  twenty-two  years. 

The  air  had  grown  chilly.  Inside,  M.  Tirar  had 
kindled  a  huge  fire  on  the  hearth.  He  was  kneeling, 
fanning  it  with  the  bellows,  while  a  young  girl  leaned 
indolently  against  the  mantel,  watching  the  flames,  and 
now  and  then  motioning  to  Jose  to  throw  on  another 
log.  The  trifling  action  startled  Knight  oddly.  How 
they  wasted  that  wood  !  All  through  his  boyhood  he 
used  to  gather  every  twig  and  chip.  How  often  he 
had  longed  to  make  one  big,  wasteful  fire,  as  they  were 
doing  now. 

The  young  lady  was  a  Miss  Venn,  who  had  been 
civil  to  him.  It  occurted  to  him  that  she  was  the  very 
embodiment  of  the  lavish  life  of  this  place.  He  did 
not,  then  or  afterward,  consider  whether  she  was  beau- 
tiful or  not.  But  the  soft,  loose  masses  of  reddish 
hair,  and  the  large,  calm,  blue  eyes,  must,  he  thought, 


BY  REBECCA  HARDING  DAVIS.  79 

belong  to  a  woman  who  was  a  generous  spendthrift  of 
life. 

Perhaps  Knight  was  at  heart  a  spendthrift.  At  all 
events,  he  suddenly  felt  a  strange  eagerness  to  become 
better  acquainted  with  Miss  Venn.  He  sought  her  out, 
the  next  morning,  among  the  groups  under  the  magno- 
lias. There  could  be  no  question  that  she  was  stupid. 
She  had  read  nothing  but  her  Bible  and  the  stories  in 
the  newspapers,  and  had  no  opinions  about  either. 
But  she  confessed  to  ignorance  of  nothing,  lying  with 
the  most  placid,  innocent  smile. 

"  '  Hamlet  ? '  Oh,  yes  ;  I  read  that  when  it  first  came 
out.  But  those  things  slip  through  my  mind  like  water 
through  a  sieve." 

To  Robert,  whose  brain  had  long  been  rasped  by 
Emma's  prickly  ideas,  this  dulness  was  as  a  downy  bed 
of  ease.  Emma  was  perpetually  struggling  after  prog- 
ress with  every  power  of  her  brain.  It  never  occurred 
to  Lucretia  Venn  to  plan  what  she  should  do  to-mor- 
row, or  at  any  future  time.  In  Throop,  too,  there  was 
much  hard  prejudice  between  the  neighbors.  To  be 
clever  was  to  have  a  sharp  acerbity  of  wit:  Emma's 
sarcasms  cut  like  a  thong.  But  these  people  were  born 
kind ;  they  were  friendly  to  all  the  world,  while  in 
Lucretia  there  was  a  warm  affluence  of  nature  which 
made  her  the  centre  of  all  this  warm,  pleasant  life. 
The  old  people  called  her  by  some  pet  name,  the  dogs 
followed  her,  the  children  climbed  into  her  lap. 
Knight  with  her  felt  like  a  traveller  who  has  been  long 
lost  on  a  bare,  cold  marsh  and  has  come  into  a  fire- 
lighted  room. 

One  afternoon  he  received  the  card  of  M.  Jose 
Tirar  y  Soult,  who  came  to  call  upon  him  formally. 
The  little  fop  was  dazzling  in  white  linen,  diamond 
solitaires  blazing  on  his  breast  and  wrists. 

"  You  go  to  ride  ? "  he  said,  as  the  horses  were 
brought  round.  "  Lucrezia,  my  child,  you  go  to  ride  ? 
It  portends  rain  " — hopping  to  the  edge  of  the  gallery. 
"  You  will  take  cold  ! " 

"  There  is  not  a  cloud  in  the  sky,"  said  M.  de  Four- 
gon.  "  Come,  Lucretia,  mount !  Jose  always  fancies 
you  on  the  edge  of  some  calamity." 

"  It  goes  to  storm,"  persisted  Tirar.  "  You  must 
wear  a  heavier  habit,  my  little  girl." 


80  TIRAR  Y  SOULT. 

Miss  Venn  laughed,  ran  to  her  own  room,  and 
changed  her  habit. 

"  What  way  shall  you  ride  ?  "  Jose'  anxiously  in 
quired  of  Knight. 

"  To  the  marshes." 

"  It  is  very  dangerous  there,  sir.  There  are  herds 
of  wild  cattle,  and  slippery  ground  " — fuming  up  and 
down  the  gallery.  "  Well,  well  !  Tirar  himself  will  go 
I  will  not  see  the  child's  life  in  risk." 

Knight  was  annoyed.  "  What  relation  does  Mon- 
sieur Tirar  hold  to  Miss  Venn  ?  "  he  asked  his  host 
apart.  "  He  assumes  the  control  of  a  father  over 
her." 

"  He  is  her  cousin.  He  used  to  nurse  the  child  on 
his  knee,  and  he  does  not  realize  that  she  has  grown  to 
be  a  woman.  Oh,  yes,  the  poor  little  man  loves  her  as 
if  she  were  his  own  child  !  When  their  grandfather, 
Louis  Soult,  died,  two  years  ago,  he  left  all  his  estate 
to  Lucretia,  and  not  a  dollar  to  Jose.  It  was  brutal  I 
But  Jose'  was  delighted.  'A  woman  must  have  money, 
or  she  is  cold  in  the  world,'  he  said.  '  But  to  shorn 
lambs,  like  me,  every  wind  is  tempered. ' " 

Mr.  Knight  was  thoughtful  during  the  first  part  of 
the  ride.  "  I  did  not  know,"  he  said,  presently,  to 
young  McCann,  from  St.  Louis,  a  stranger  like  himself, 
"  that  Miss  Venn  was  a  wealthy  woman." 

"  Oh,  yes,  the  largest  landholder  in  this  parish,  and 
ten  thousand  a  year,  clear,  besides." 

Ten  thousand  a  year  !  And  Emma  drudging  till 
midnight  for  two  or  three  dollars  a  column  !  Poor 
Emma!  A  gush  of  unwonted  tenderness  filled  his 
heart.  The  homely,  faithful  soul ! 

Ten  thousand  a  year!  Knight  would  have  been 
humiliated  to  think  that  this  money  could  change  his 
feeling  to  the  young  woman  who  owned  it.  But  it  did 
change  it.  She  was  no  longer  only  a  dull,  fascinating 
appeal  to  his  imagination.  She  was  a  power ;  some- 
thing to  be  regarded  with  respect,  like  a  Building 
Association  or  Pacific  Railway  stocks.  But  for  some 
unexplained  reason  he  carefully  avoided  her  during  the 
ride.  Miss  Venn  was  annoyed  at  this  desertion,  and 
showed  it  as  a  child  would  do.  She  beckoned  him 
again  and  again  to  look  at  a  heron's  nest,  or  at  the 
water-snakes  darting  through  the  ridges  of  the  bayou, 


B  Y  REBECCA  HA  RDING  DA  VIS.  8 1 

or  at  a  family  of  chameleons  who  were  keeping  house 
on  a  prickly-pear.  Finding  that  he  did  not  stay  at  her 
side,  she  gave  up  her  innocent  wiles,  at  last,  and  rode 
on  in  silence.  M.  Tirar  then  flung  himself  headlong 
into  the  breach.  He  poured  forth  information  about 
Louisiana  for  Knight's  benefit,  with  his  own  flighty 
opinions  tagged  thereto.  He  told  stories  and  laughed 
at  them  louder  than  anybody  else,  his  brown  eyes 
dancing  with  fun ;  but  through  all  he  kept  a  furtive 
watch  upon  Lucretia  to  see  the  effect  upon  her. 

They  had  now  reached  the  marshes  which  lie  along 
the  Gulf.  They  were  covered  with  a  thin  grass,  which 
shone  bright-emerald  in  the  hot  noon.  The  tide 
soaked  the  earth  beneath,  and  drove  back  the  narrow 
lagoons  that  were  creeping  seaward.  A  herd  of  raw- 
boned  cattle  wandered  aimlessly  over  the  spongy  sur- 
face, doubtful  whether  the  land  was  water,  or  the 
water,  land.  They  staggered  as  they  walked,  from 
sheer  weakness;  one  steer  fell  exhausted,  and  as 
Lucretia's  horse  passed,  it  lifted  its  head  feebly,  looked 
at  her  with  beseeching  eyes,  and  dropped  it  again.  A 
Hock  of  buzzards  in  the  distance  scented  their  prey 
and  began  to  swoop  down  out  of  the  clear  sky,  flashes 
of  black  across  the  vivid  green  of  the  prairie,  with  low 
and  lower  dips  until  they  alighted,  quivering,  on  the 
dying  beast  and  began  to  tear  the  flesh  from  its 
side. 

Josd  rode  them  down,  yelling  with  rage.  He  came 
back  jabbbering  in  Spanish  and  looking  gloomily  over 
the  vast  empty  marsh.  "  I  hate  death  anywhere,  but 
this  is  wholesale  murder!  These  wretched  Cajans 
of  the  marsh  raise  larger  herds  than  they  can  feed  ; 
they  starve  by  the  hundreds.  That  poor  beast  is  dead 
— thanks  be  to  God  !  "  After  a  pause.  "  Well, 
well  !  "  he  cried,  with  a  shrug,  "  your  syndicate  will 
soon  convert  this  delta  into  solid  ground,  Mr.  Knight ; 
it  is  a  noble  work  !  Vast  fortunes  " — with  a  magnilo- 
quent sweep  of  his  arm — "  lie  hidden  under  this 
mud." 

"  Why  don't  you  take  a  share  in  the  noble  work 
then  ?  "  asked  McCann.  "  That  is,  if  it  would  not 
interfere  with  your  other  occupations  ?  " 

"  Me  ?  I  have  no  occupations  !  What  work  should 
I  do  ?  "  asked  Jose',  with  a  fillip  of  his  pudgy  fingers. 
6 


82  TIRAR  Y  SOULT. 

Presently  he  galloped  up  to  Miss  Venn's  side  with  an 
anxious  face. 

"  Lucrezia,  my  child,  has  it  occurred  to  you  that  you 
would  like  me  better  if  1  were  doctor,  or  lawyer,  or 
something?  " 

She  looked  at  him,  bewildered,  but  said  nothing. 

"  It  has  not  occurred  to  me"  he  went  on  seriously. 
"  I  have  three,  four  hundred  dollars  every  year  to  buy 
my  clothes.  I  have  the  Tirar  jewelry.  What  more  do 
I  want  ?  Every  thing  I  need  comes  to  me." 

"  Certainly,  why  not  ?  "  she  answered  absently,  her 
eyes  wandering  in  search  of  something  across  the 
marsh. 

"  Then  you  do  not  mind  ? "  he  persisted  anxiously. 
"  I  wish  my  little  girl  to  be  pleased  with  old  Jose.  As 
for  the  rest  of  the  world  " — he  cracked  his  thumb  con- 
temptuously. 

Miss  Venn  smiled  faintly.  She  had  not  even  heard 
him.  She  was  watching  Knight,  who  had  left  the 
party  and  was  riding  homeward  alone.  Jose  fancied 
there  were  tears  in  her  eyes. 

"  Lucrezia !  " 

No  answer. 

"  Lucrezia,  do  not  worry  !     7am  here." 

"  You  !  Oh,  Man  Dicu  !  You  are  always  here  ! " 
She  broke  forth,  pettishly. 

Jose  gasped  as  if  he  had  been  struck,  then  he 
reined  in  his  horse,  falling  back,  while  Mr.  McCann 
gladly  took  his  place. 

M.  Tirar,  after  that  day,  did  not  return  to  the  planta- 
tion. Once  he  met  M.  de  Fourgon  somewhere  in  the 
parish,  and  with  a  sickly  smile  asked  if  Lucretia  were 
in  good  health.  "  Remember  Jean,"  he  added, 
earnestly,  riding  with  him  a  little  way.  "  I  am  that 
little  girl's  guardian.  If  she  ever  marry,  it  is  Jose  who 
must  give  her  away.  So  ridiculous  in  her  father  to 
make  a  foolish  young  fellow  like  me  her  guardian  !  " 

"  Not  at  all !  No,  indeed  !  Very  proper,  Tirar," 
said  M.  de  Fourgon,  politely,  at  which  Jose's  face  grew 
still  paler  and  more  grave. 

One  day  he  appeared  about  noon  on  the  gallery. 
His  shoes  were  muddy,  his  clothes  the  color  of  a  be- 
draggled moth. 

"  Ah,  man  enfant /"  cried  Madame  Dessaix,  kindly, 


B  Y  REBECCA  HA  RDING  DA  VIS.  8  3 

from  her  chair  in  a  shady  corner.  "  What  is  wrong  ? 
No  white  costume  this  day,  no  diamonds,  no  laugh  ? 
What  is  it,  Jose'  ?" 

"  Nothing,  madame,"  said  the  little  man,  drearily. 
"  I  grow  old.  I  dress  no  more  as  a  young  man.  I 
accommodate  myself  to  the  age — the  wrinkles." 

"  Wrinkles  ?  Bah  !  Come  and  sit  by  me.  For 
whom  is  that  you  look  ?  " 

"  But — I  thought  I  heard  Lucrezia  laugh  as  I  rode 
up  the  levee  ?  " 

Madame  Dessaix  nodded  significantly  and,  putting 
her  fingers  on  her  lips,  with  all  the  delight  that  a 
Frenchwoman  takes  in  lovers,  led  him,  on  tip-toe,  to 
the  end  of  the  gallery  and,  drawing  aside  the  vines, 
showed  him  Lucretia  in  a  hammock  under  a  gigantic 
pecan-tree.  A  mist  of  hanging  green  moss  closed 
about  her.  She  lay  in  it  as  a  soft,  white  bird  in  a 
huge  nest.  Knight  stood  leaning  against  the  trunk  of 
the  tree,  looking  down  at  her,  his  thin  face  intent  and 
heated.  He  had  spoken  to  her,  but  she  did  not 
answer.  She  smiled  lazily,  as  she  did  when  the  chil- 
dren patted  her  on  the  cheek. 

"  Voila  la  petite!"  whispered  Madame  Dessaix,  tri- 
umphantly. Then  she  glanced  at  M.  Tirar,  finding 
that  he  looked  on  in  silence.  He  roused  himself,  with 
a  queer  noise  in  his  throat. 

"  Yes,  yes  !     Now — what  does  she  answer  him  ?  " 

"  Mere  de  Dieu !  What  can  she  answer  ?  He  is 
young.  He  is  a  man  who  has  his  own  way.  He  will 
have  no  answer  but  the  one  !  We  consider  the  affair 
finished  !  " 

Tirar  made  no  comment.  He  turned  and  walked 
quickly  down  to  the  barnyard,  where  the  children 
were,  and  stood  among  them  and  the  cows  for  awhile. 
The  stable  boys,  used  to  jokes  and  picayunes  from 
him,  turned  hand-springs  and  skylarked  under  his 
feet.  Finding  that  he  neither  laughed  nor  swore  at 
them,  they  began  to  watch  him  more  narrowly,  and 
noticed  his  shabby  clothes  with  amazed  contempt. 

"  Don  Jose  saek,  ta-ta  !  "  they  whispered.  "  Don 
Jose,  yo'  no  see  mud  on  yo'  clo'es  ?  " 

"  But  he  stood  leaning  over  the  fence,  deaf  and 
blind  to  them. 

His    tormentors    tried    another     point    of     attack. 


84  TIRAR  Y  SOULT. 

"  Don  Jose  no  seek,  but  his  mare  seek.  Poor  Chi- 
quita  !  She  old  horse  now." 

"  It's  a  damned  lie  !  "  Tirar  turned  on  the  boy  with 
such  fury  that  he  jumped  back.  "  She's  not  old  ! 
luring  her  out !  " 

The  negroes  tumbled  over  each  other  in  their  fright. 
The  little  white  mare  was  led  out.  Jose'  patted  her 
with  trembling  hands.  Whatever  great  trouble  had 
shaken  him  turned  for  the  moment  into  this  petty  out- 
let. 

"  There  is  not  such  a  horse  in  Attakapas !  "  he  mut- 
tered to  himself.  "I  am  old,  but  she  is  young!" 
The  mare  whinnied  with  pleasure  as  he  stroked  her 
and  mounted. 

As  he  rode  from  the  enclosure,  a  clumsy  bay  horse 
was  led  out  of  the  stable.  Knight  came  down  the 
levee  to  meet  it.  Jose  scanned  it  with  fierce  con- 
tempt. "Ah,  the  low-born  beast!  And  its  master  is 
no  otherwise  !  But  who  can  tell  what  shall  please  the 
little  girl  ?  " 

But  Tirar  could  not  shut  his  eyes  to  the  fact  that 
the  figure  on  the  heavy  horse  was  manly  and  fine. 
The  courage  in  his  heart  was  at  its  lowest  ebb. 

"  Jose*  is  old  and  fat — fat.  That  is  a  young  fellow — 
he  is  like  a  man  !"  His  chin  quivered  like  a  hysteric 
woman's.  The  next  minute  he  threw  himself  on  the 
mare's  neck. 

"  I  have  only  you  now,  Chiquita  !    Nobody  but  you  !  " 

She  threw  back  her  ears  and  skimmed  across  the 
prairie  with  the  hoof  of  a  deer.  When  he  passed 
Knight,  M.  Tirar  saluted  him  with  profound  courtesy. 

'*  Funny  little  man,"  said  Robert  to  McCann,  who 
had  joined  him.  "  You  might  call  him  a  note  of  exag- 
geration in  the  world.  But  that  is  a  fine  horse  that  he 
rides." 

"  Yes  ;  a  famous  racer  in  her  day,  they  tell  me. 
Tirar  talks  of  her  as  if  she  were  a  blood-relation.  I 
wish  we  had  horses  of  her  build  just  now.  That  brute 
of  yours  sinks  in  the  mud  with  every  step." 

"It  is  deeper  than  usual  to-day.  I» don't  understand 
it.  We  have  had  no  rain." 

They  separated  in  a  few  minutes,  Knight  taking  his 
way  to  the  sea  marshes. 

The  marshes  were  always  silent,  but  there  was  a  sin- 


BY  REBECCA  HARDING  DA  VIS.  85 

gular,  deep  stillness  upon  them  to-day.  The  sun  was 
hidden  by  low-hanging  mists,  but  it  turned  them  into 
tent-like  veils  of  soft,  silvery  brilliance.  The  colors 
and  even  the  scents  of  the  marshes  were  oddly  intensi- 
fied beneath  them  ;  the  air  held  the  strong  smells  of 
the  grass  and  roses  motionless  ;  the  lagoons,  usually 
chocolate-colored,  were  inky  black  between  their 
fringes  of  yellow  and  purple  flags  ;  the  countless  circu- 
lar pools  of  clear  water  seemed  to  have  increased  in 
number,  and  leaped  and  bubbled  as  if  alive. 

If  poor  Emma  could  but  turn  her  eyes  from  the 
barren  fields  of  Throop  to  this  strange,  enchanted 
plain  ! 

He  checked  himself.  What  right  had  he  to  wish  for 
Emma  ?  Lucretia 

But  Lucretia  would  see  nothing  in  it  but  mud  and 
weeds  ! 

Lucretia  was  a  dear  soul ;  but  after  all,  he  thought 
with  a  laugh,  her  best  qualities  were  those  of  an  amia- 
ble cow.  That  very  day  he  had  brought  himself  to 
make  love  to  her  with  as  much  force  as  his  brain  could 
put  into  the  words,  and  she  had  listened  with  the 
amused,  pleased,  ox-like  stare  of  one  of  these  cattle 
when  its  sides  were  tickled  by  the  long  grass.  She 
had  given  him  no  definite  answer. 

Knight  ploughed  his  way  through  the  spongy  prairie, 
therefore,  in  a  surly  ill-humor,  which  the  unusual  depth 
of  mud  did  not  make  more  amiable.  He  was  forced 
to  ride  into  the  bayou  every  few  minutes  to  wash  the 
clammy  lumps  from  the  legs  of  his  horse. 

Where  M.  Tirar  went  that  day,  he  himself,  when 
afternoon  came,  could  not  have  told  distinctly.  He 
had  a  vague  remembrance  that  he  had  stopped  at  one 
or  two  Acadian  farm-houses  for  no  purpose  whatever. 
He  was  not  a  drinking  man,  and  had  tasted  nothing 
but  water  all  day,  yet  his  brain  was  stunned  and 
bruised,  as  if  he  was  rousing  from  a  long  debauch. 
When  he  came  to  himself  he  was  on  the  lower 
marshes.  Chiquita  had  suddenly  stopped,  planted  her 
legs  apart  like  a  mule,  and  refused  to  budge  an  inch 
farther.  What  ailed  this  bayou  ?  It,  too,  had  come'  to 
a  halt,  and  had  swollen  into  a  stagnant  black  pond. 

Jose  was  altogether  awake  now.  He  understood 
what  had  happened.  A  heavy  spring  tide  in  the  gulf 


86  TIRAR  Y  SOULT. 

had  barred  all  outlet  for  the  bayous,  wnich  cut  through 
the  marshes.  The  great  river,  for  which  they  were 
but  mouths,  was  always  forcing  its  way  over  their 
banks  and  oozing  through  all  the  spongy  soil.  There 
was  no  immediate  danger  of  his  drowning ;  but  unless 
he  made  instant  escape,  there  was  a  certainty  that  he 
would  be  held  and  sucked  into  the  vast  and  rapidly 
spreading  quicksands  of  mud  until  he  did  drown. 

If  Chiquita ? 

He  wheeled  her  head  to  the  land  and  called  to  her. 
She  began  to  move  with  extreme  caution,  testing  each 
step,  now  and  then  leaping  to  a  hummock  of  solid 
earth.  Twice  she  stopped  and  changed  her  course. 
Jose  dismounted  several,  times  and  tried  to  lead  her. 
But  he  soon  was  bogged  knee  deep.  He  saw  that  the 
instinct  of  the  horse  was  safer  than  his  judgment,  and 
at  last  sat  quietly  in  the  saddle.  At  ordinary  times  he 
would  have  sworn  and  scolded,  and,  perhaps,  being 
alone,  have  shed  tears,  for  Jose  was  at  heart  a  coward 
and  dearly  loved  his  life. 

But  to-day  it  was  low  tide  in  the  little  man's  heart. 
The  bulk  of  life  had  gone  from  him  with  Lucretia. 
His  love  for  her  had  given  him  dignity  in  his  own 
eyes  ;  without  her  he  was  a  poor  buffoon,  who  carried 
his  jokes  from  house  to  house  in  payment  for  alms. 

He  did  what  he  could,  however,  to  save  his  life, 
rationally  enough — threw  off  his  heavy  boots,  and  the 
Spanish  saddle,  to  lighten  the  load  on  the  mare,  patted 
her,  sang  and  laughed  to  cheer  her.  Once,  when  the 
outlook  was  desperate,  he  jumped  off.  "  She  shall  not 
die  !  "  he  said,  fiercely.  He  tried  to  drive  her  away, 
but  she  stood  still,  gazing  at  him  wistfully. 

"  Aha  !  "  shouted  Jose,  delighted,  nodding  to  some 
invisible  looker-on.  "  Do  you  see  that  ?  She  will  not 
forsake  me !  So,  my  darling !  You  and  Tirar  will 
keep  together  to  the  last."  He  mounted  again. 

Chiquita,  after  that,  made  slow  but  steady  progress. 
She  reached  a  higher  plateau.  Even  there  the  pools 
were  rapidly  widening ;  the  oozing  water  began  to 
shine  between  the  blades  of  grass.  In  less  than  an 
hour  this  level  also  would  be  in  the  sea. 

But  in  less  than  an  hour  Chiquita  would  have 
brought  him  to  dry  grouad. 


BY  REBECCA  HARDING  DA  VIS.  S/ 

Jose  talked  to  her  incessantly  now,  in  Spanish,  argu- 
ing as  to  this  course  or  that. 

"  Ha  !  What  is  that  ?  "  he  cried,  pulling  her  up. 
"  That  black  lump  by  the  bayou  ?  A  man — no  !  A 
horse  and  man  !  They  are  sinking — held  fast !  " 

He  was  silent  a  moment,  panting  with  excitement. 
Then — "  It  is  Knight !  "  he  cried.  "  Caught  like  a  rat 
in  a  trap  !  He  will  die — thanks  be  to  God  !  " 

If  Knight  were  dead,  Lucretia  would  be  his  own 
little  girl  again. 

The  thought  was  the  flash  of  a  moment.  Knight's 
back  was  toward  him.  Jose,  unseen,  waited  irresolute. 

After  the  first  murderous  triumph  he  hoped  Robert 
could  be  saved.  Tirar  was  a  qoward,  but  at  bottom  he 
was  a  man — how  much  of  a  man  remained  to  be 
proved.  The  longer  he  looked  at  the  engineer,  the 
more  he  hated  him,  with  a  blind,  childish  fury. 

"But  lam  not  murdered — I!"  he  said  to  himself, 
mechanically,  again  and  again. 

Chiquita  pawed,  impatient  to  be  off.  The  water  was 
rising  about  her  hoofs.  It  sparkled  now  everywhere 
below  the  reeds.  Death  was  waiting  for  both  the  men 
— a  still,  silent,  certain  death — the  more  horrible  be- 
cause there  was  no  fury  or  darkness  in  it.  The  silvery 
mist  still  shut  the  world  in,  like  the  walls  of  a  tent ;  the 
purple  and  yellow  flags  shone  in  the  quiet  light. 

Chiquita  could  save  one,  and  but  one. 

The  Tirars  and  Soults  had  been  men  of  courage  and 
honor  for  generations.  Their  blood  was  quickening  in 
his  fat  little  body. 

A  thought  struck  him  like  a  stab  from  a  knife.  "  If 
Knight  dies,  it  will  break  her  heart.  But  me  !"  Then 
he  cracked  his  thumb  contemptuously.  "  What  does 
she  care  for  poor  old  Jose  ?  " 

We  will  not  ask  what  passed  in  his  heart  during  the 
next  ten  minutes. 

He  and  his  God  were  alone  together. 

He  came  up  to  Knight  and  tapped  him  on  the  shoul- 
der. "Hello!  What's  wrong?" 

"  I'm  bogged.  This  brute  of  a  horse  is  sinking  in 
the  infernal  mud." 

"Don't  jerk  at  him  !  I'll  change  the  horses  with  you, 
If  you  are  in  a  hurry  to  reach  the  plantation.  Chiquita 
can  take  you  more  quickly  than  he." 


88  TIRAR  Y  SOULT. 

"  But  you  ? — I  don't  understand  you.  What  will  you 
do? 

"  I  am  in  no  hurry." 

"  This  horse  will  not  carry  you.  It  seems  to  me  that 
the  mud  is  growing  deeper." 

"  I  understand  the  horses  and  mud  of  our  marshes 
better  than  you.  Come,  take  Chiquita.  Go  !  " 

Knight  alighted  and  mounted  the  mare,  with  a  per- 
plexed face.  He  had  begun  to  think  himself  in  actual 
danger,  and  was  mortified  to  find  that  Jose  made  so 
light  of  the  affair. 

"  Well,  good-day,  Monsieur  Tirar  !  "  he  said.  "It  is 
very  kind  in  you  to  take  that  confounded  beast  off  my 
hands.  I'll  sell  him  to-morrow  if  I  can."  He  nodded 
to  Jose,  and  jerked  the  bridle  sharply.  "  Come,  get 
up  !  "  he  said,  touching  Chiquita  with  the  whip. 

Jose  leaped  at  him  like  a  cat.  "  Damnation  !  Don't 
dare  touch  her  ! — wrenching  the  whip  from  his  hand, 
and  raising  it  to  strike  him.  "  Pardon,  sir,"  stiffening 
himself,  "  my  horse  will  not  bear  a  stroke.  Do  not 
speak  to  her  and  she  will  carry  you  safely.  His  hand 
rested  a  moment  on  the  mare's  neck.  He  muttered 
something  to  her  in  Spanish,  and  then  turned  his  back 
that  he  might  not  see  her  go  away. 

Mr.  Knight  reached  the  upper  marshes  in  about  two 
hours.  He  caught  sight  of  a  boat  going  down  the 
bayon,  and  recognizing  M.  de  Fourgon  and  some  other 
men  from  the  plantation  in  it,  rode  down  to  meet 
them. 

"  Thank  God  you  are  safe,  Knight !  exclaimed  M. 
de  Fourgon.  "  How's  that  ?  Surely  that  is  Chiquita 
you  are  riding  !  Where  did  you  find  her?" 

"  That  queer  little  Mexican  insisted  that  I  should 
swap  horses  with  him.  My  nag  was  bogged,  and " 

The  men  looked  at  each  other. 

"Where  did  you  leave  htm  ?" 

"In  the  sea-marsh,  near  the  mouth  of  this  bayou. 
Why,  what  do  you  mean  ?  Is  he  in  danger  ?  Stop  1"  he 
shouted,  as  they  pulled  away  without  a  word.  "For 
God's  sake,  let  me  go  with  you  !  "  He  left  Chiquita  on 
the  bank  and  leaped  into  the  boat,  taking  an  oar. 

"  You  do  not  mean  that  Tirar  has  risked  his  life  for 
mine  ?"  he  said. 


B  Y  REBECCA  HARDING  DA  VIS.  89 

"  It  looks  like  it,"  McCann  replied.  "And  yet  I 
could  have  sworn  that  he  disliked  you,  especially." 

"The  old  Tirar  blood  has  not  perished  from  off 
the  earth,"  said  M.  de  Fourgon,  in  a  low  voice.  "Give 
way  !  Together  now  !  I  fear  we  are  too  late." 

The  whole  marsh  was  under  water  before  they 
reached  it.  They  found  Jose's  body  submerged,  but 
wedged  in  the  crotch  of  a  pecan-tree,  into  which  he  had 
climbed.  It  fell  like  a  stone  into  the  boat. 

M.  de  Fourgon  laid  his  ear  to  his  heart,  pressed  his 
chest,  and  rose,  replying  by  a  shake  of  the  head  to 
their  looks.  He  took  up  his  oar  and  rowed  in  silence 
for  a  few  minutes. 

"  Pull,  gentlemen  !  "  he  said  horsely.  "  The  night  is 
almost  upon  us.  We  will  take  him  to  my  house." 

But  Knight  did  not  believe  that  Jose  was  dead. 
He  stripped  him,  and  rubbed  and  chafed  the  sodden 
body  in  the  bottom  of  the  boat.  When  they  reached 
the  house  and,  after  hours  of  vain  effort,  even  the 
physician  gave  up,  Knight  would  not  listen  to  him. 

"  He  shall  not  die,  I  tell  you  !  Why  should  his  life  be 
given  for  mine  ?  I  did  not  even  thank  him,  brute  that 
I  am  !  " 

It  was  but  a  few  minutes  after  that,  that  he  looked 
up  from  his  rubbing,  his  face  growing  suddenly  white. 
The  doctor  put  his  hand  on  Tirar's  breast.  "  It 
beats  !"  he  cried  excitedly.  "  Stand  back !  Air — 
brandy ! " 

At  last  Jose"  opened  his  eyes,  and  his  lips  moved. 
"  What  is  it,  my  dear  fellow  ?"  they  all  cried,  crowding 
around  him.  But  only  Knight  caught  the  whisper. 
He  stood  up,  an  amazed  comprehension  in  his  eyes. 

Drawing  M.  de  Fourgon  aside,  he  said:  "I  under- 
stand now !  I  see  why  he  did  it  !  "  and  hurried  away 
abruptly,  in  search  of  Miss  Venn. 

The  next  morning  M.  Tirar  was  carried  out  in  a 
steamer-chair  to  the  gallery. 

He  was  the  hero  of  the  day.  The  whole  household, 
from  Madame  Dessaix  to  the  black  pickaninnies,  buzzed 
about  him.  Miss  Venn  came  down  the  gallery,  beam- 
ing, flushed,  her  eyes  soft  with  tears.  She  motioned 
them  all  aside  and  sat  down  by  him,  stroking  his  cold 
hand  in  her  warm  ones. 


90  TIRAR  Y  SOULT. 

"  It  is  me  that  you  want,  Jose*  ?  Not  these  others  ? 
Only  me  ? " 

"If  you  can  spare  for  me  a  little  time,  Lucrezia?" 
he  said,  humbly. 

She  did  not  reply  for  so  long  that  he  turned  and 
looked  into  her  face. 

"  A  little  time  ?     All  of  the  time,"  she  whispered. 

Jose  started  forward.  His  chilled  heart  had  scarce- 
ly seemed  to  heat  since  he  was  taken  from  the  water. 
Now  it  sent  the  blood  hot  through  his  body. 

"What  do  you  mean,  child?"  he  said,  sternly. 
"  Think  what  you  say.  It  is  old  Josd.  Do  you  mean 

"  Yes ;  and  I  always  meant  it,"  she  said  quietly. 
"Why,  there  are  only  us  left — you  and  me.  And 
Chiquita,"  she  added,  laughing. 

A  week  later  Mrs.  Knight  received  a  letter  from 
Robert,  with  the  story  of  his  rescue.  She  cried  over  it 
a  good  deal. 

"  Though  I  don't  see  why  he  thinks  it  such  an  extra- 
ordinary thing  in  that  little  man  to  do  !  "  she  reflected. 
"  Anybody  would  wish  to  save  Robert,  even  a  wild 
Mexican.  And,  why  upon  earth,  because  his  life  was 
in  danger,  he  should  have  written  to  offer  it  to  Emma 
Cramer,  passes  me  !  She  hasn't  a  dollar." 

Through  the  window  she  saw  the  girl  crossing  the 
fields,  with  quick,  light  steps. 

"  She's  heard  from  him !  She's  coming  to  tell  me. 
Well,  I  did  think  Robert  would  have  married  well, 
having  his  pick  and  choice " 

But  the  widow's  heart  had  been  deeply  moved. 
"  Poor  Emma  !  She's  been  as  faithful  as  a  dog  to 
Robert.  If  she  has  no  money,  she  will  save  his  as  an 
heiress  would  not  have  done.  Providence  -orders  all 
things  right,"  she  thought,  relenting.  "  If  that  girl  has 
not  put  on  her  best  white  dress  on  a  week-day !  How 
glad  she  must  be  !  I'll  go  and  meet  her,  I  guess.  She 
has  no  mother  now,  to  kiss  her,  or  say  God  bless  her, 
poor  child  !  "  and  she  hurried  to  the  gate. 


TOM  FOSTER'S  WIFE, 


BY 


EDNA  DEAN  PROTOCR 


EDNA  DEAN  PROCTOR 


WAS  born  in  Henniker,  New  Hampshire,  her  father's 
family  having  gone  there  from  Essex  County, 
Massachusetts.  She  was  thoroughly  educated 
and  trained,  and  started  out  in  life,  equipped  not 
only  with  a  great  love  of  learning,  but  with  all  the 
accessories  which  made  it  possible  for  her  to  follow 
the  inclinations  of  her  mind.  She  was  early  in  life 
a  writer  of  poetry,  but  not  until  the  civil  war — 
which  aroused  the  patriotic  element  within  her — were 
her  verses  known  to  her  countrymen.  Then  her  thrill- 
ing national  poems  sounded  like  a  bugle  from  the  hill 
of  Mars.  The  name  of  Edna  Dean  Proctor  became 
dear  to  the  loyal  soldiery,  and  her  appeals  were  read 
beside  the  camp  fires  as  they  were  repeated  in  the  New 
England  homes  and  schools.  No  battle  songs  did 
more  to  sustain  the  sentiment  of  patriotism  in  the 
soldiery  than  those  of  Miss  Proctor,  which  are  found 
in  her  volume  of  collected  poems.  "The  Stripes  and 
Stars,"  written  in  April,  1861  ;  "  Compromise,"  in- 
scribed to  Congress,  July  4,  1861  ;  "Who's  Ready?" 
written  in  July,  1862,  are  really  national  anthems.  A 
volume  of  her  poems  was  published  by  Hurd  & 
Houghton  in  1867.  A  later  collection  has  been  made 
and  is  now  in  course  of  publication.  Miss  Proctor 
never  hastens  the  publication  of  anything  she  writes, 
and  being  so  fortunately  situated  in  life  as  to  be  in- 
dependent of  circumstances,  she  writes  only  when 
impelled  by  her  genius;  hence  the  world  receives  her 
best  work. 

Miss  Proctor's  mission  in  life  is  that  of  a  poet,  and 
she  lives  in  the  thoughts  and  affections  of  thousands 
who  have  never  seen  her.  She  is  mistress  of  pathos, 
and  when  her  poem,  "  Heaven,  Oh  Lord,  I  Cannot 
Lose  "  appeared,  it  brought  a  wealth  of  responses  from 
all  over  the  land.  John  Greenleaf  Whittier  pronounced 
95 


96  EDNA  DEAN  PROCTOR. 

the  poem,  "  New  Hampshire,"  one  of  the  grandest 
produced  in  this  country,  and  his  verdict  of  her  poems 
generally  was  that  they  had  greater  strength  and  a 
loftier  and  higher  order  of  merit  than  those  of  any 
American  female  writer.  Of  her  poem,  "  Oh,  Loved 
and  Lost,"  he  says,  "  How  sweet,  tender  and  lovely  the 
poem  is !  All  our  hearts  were  touched  by  it.  It  is  a 
poem  full  of  power  and  pathos,  yet  its  shadows  are 
radiant  with  a  holy  hope.  I  have  read  it  over  and 
over  with  deep  interest  and  sympathy,  and  have  found 
comfort  and  strength  in  it."  The  gentle  Quaker  poet 
also  said  of  her  poem  on  "Burns,"'  that  it  was  so  good, 
so  true,  so  tender,  yet  so  strong  of  thought  that  he 
hoped  the  bard  himself,  in  his  new  life,  might  read  it. 
Mr.  Longfellow  used  many  of  Miss  Proctor's  poems  in 
his  "  Poems  of  Places,"  and  expressed  regret  that  her 
poem  "  Holy  Russia  "  had  not  been  written  in  time  for 
his  book,  saying,  "It  would  have  been  a  splendid 
prelude  to  the  volume." 

Mr.  Longfellow  greatly  admired  Miss  Proctor's 
"  Russian  Journey,"  as  a  book  of  surpassing  interest. 
The  original  poem  which  precedes  each  chapter  stirs 
the  heart  like  the  sound  of  a  trumpet.  This  was  her 
second  volume  of  prose,  and  it  was  written  after  a 
prolonged  tour  in  Europe  and  a  stay  of  many  months 
in  that  country.  She  has  occasionally  written  short 
sketches  and  stories,  but  of  her  prose  work  she  is  not 
willing  to  speak  unreservedly  because  poetry  is  her 
field.  Few  women  have  enjoyed  larger  opportunities 
for  self-improvement  by  study  and  travel.  She  has  an 
exquisite  sympathy  with  sorrow  and  suffering,  and  one 
feels  a  relief  in  turning  from  intensely  saddening 
poems,  as  "At  Home,"  in  which  the  death  of  Charley, 
a  wounded  soldier  boy,  within  sight  of  his  old  home  in 
New  Hampshire,  is  told  with  thrilling  presentability,  to 
use  a  good  old  word,  to  those  happier  songs  in  which 
with  gentle  hand  she  wipes  away  the  tears  from  all 
faces.  While  a  writer  of  exquisite  verse,  Miss  Proctor 
is,  happily,  a  woman  of  rare  personality.  Not  tall  nor 
quite  small,  she  is  of  medium  stature,  deliberate  and 
graceful  in  movement,  and  possessed  of  much  dignity 
Her  manners  are  those  of  a  high-bred  lady,  and  her 
voice,  which  is  sweet  and  low,  is  her  great  charm.  She 
is  a  fluent  talker,  but  never  a  gay  one,  Her  ways  are 


EDNA  DEAN  PROCTOR.  97 

gentle  and  earnest,  rather  than  merry  and  vivacious. 
A  distinguished  writer,  describing  her,  spoke  of  her  as 
"the  lady  with  eyes  from  out  the  East."  Their  ex- 
pression is  always  soft,  and  sometimes  sad,  and  her 
soul  is  photographed  in  the  light  that  shines  out 
from  her  black,  lustrous  and  full  eyes. 

As  in  her  poems,  so  in  her  life  ;  the  sunshine  and 
the  clouds  will  sometimes  pass  each  other,  but  there  is 
such  an  undercurrent  of  love  and  hope  in  her  nature 
that  the  sunshine  predominates.  Miss  Proctor  is  a 
true  poet — a  woman  of  genius  and  sterling  worth. 


TOM  FOSTER'S  WIFE. 


I  HAD  just  returned  from  a  two  years  stay  in  Europe, 
and  was  sauntering  down  Tremont  street,  in  the  golden 
September  morning,  when  I  saw  my  old  friend,  Tom 
Foster,  get  out  of  a  horse-car  a  few  steps  in  advance  of 
me.  I  knew  him  in  a  moment,  though  we  had  hardly 
met  since  we  were  at  Exeter  Academy  together,  ten 
years  before — room-mates  and  blithe  companions  until 
we  parted — I  to  go  to  Harvard  and  he  to  enter  his 
father's  store,  the  well  known  house  of  Foster  &  Co., 
Pearl  street.  He  was  a  merry,  hearty,  practical  fellow, 
clear  skinned  and  robust  as  an  Englishman,  self-reliant 
and  enterprising  as  New  Hampshire  birth  and  Boston 
training  could  make  him.  I  always  liked  him  ;  but  he 
plunged  into  business  and  I  into  study,  and  so,  with- 
out meaning  it,  we  had  almost  lost  sight  of  each  other. 
He  was  an  only  child  and  his  parents  spent  their 
summers  at  their  homestead  in  Greenland,  near 
Portsmouth,  and  their  winters  in  Boston. 

As  I  said,  I  knew  him  in  a  moment.  He  had  grown 
tall  and  stout,  but  the  boy  was  still  in  his  face,  and 
with  a  flush  of  early  feeling  I  sprang  forward  and, 
caught  him  by  the  arm. 

"  Tom  !     How  are  you  ? " 

He  looked  puzzled  for  a  moment,  and  then,  bursting 
into  a  laugh,  he  seized  my  hand  in  his  strong  grasp, 
and  exclaimed  :  "  Why,  John  Ralston  !  Is  this  you  ? 
Where  did  you  come  from  ?  I'm  glad  to  see  you,  my 
boy.  Why,  I  haven't  set  my  eyes  on  you  since  we 
made  that  trip  to  Nahant,  in  your  Freshman  year. 
The  truth  is,  father  was  so  poorly  for  a  long  time  then 
that  I  had  everything  to  see  to,  and  felt  as  if  the  world 
was  on  my  shoulders.  I  did  hear,  though,  about  your 
college  honors  and  your  going  to  Germany ;  and 
I've  often  thought  of  you  lately  and  wished  to  see 
you.  Why,  Jack,  in  spite  of  my  weight  and  your  beard 
99  . 


IOO  TOM  FOSTER'S  WIFE. 

and  broad  shoulders,  I  can't  realize  that  ten  years  have 
gone  since  we  were  at  Exeter  together.  We  must  talk 
over  old  times  and  new.  When  did  you  get  back  and 
what  are  your  plans  ? " 

"  I  came  yesterday,  and  shall  stay  in  the  city,  on 
account  of  a  business  matter,  until  next  Tuesday. 
Then  I  am  going  home." 

"  Well,  now,  this  is  Saturday,  and  you  can  do  nothing 
after  three  o'clock.  Come  and  spend  Sunday  with  me 
in  the  country.  I  want  to  show  you  my  wife." 

"  Your  wife  !     Are  you  married,  Tom  ?  " 

"  Married  nearly  a  year,"  said  he,  with  a  smile. 

"You  don't  look  very  solemn  over  it." 

"  Solemn  ?  It's  the  jolliest  thing  I  ever  did  in  my 
life.  Meet  me  at  the  Eastern  Depot  at  four  o'clock, 
and  I'll  tell  you  all  about  it  on  the  way  down. 

We  parted  at  the  Winter  street  corner — he  to  go  to 
his  store,  and  I  to  the  Parker -House. 

"  How  handsome  Boston  has  grown,"  said  I,  glancing 
at  the  fine  buildings  and  the  Common,  beautiful  in  the 
September  sun. 

"  We  think  it  a  nice  town,"  he  replied,  speaking 
with  the  moderate  words  and  the  perfect  assurance  of 
the  Bostonian,  to  whom  his  city  is  the  sum  of  all 
excellence  and  delight.  "  Remember,  four  o'clock." 
And  he  disappeared  in  the  crowd. 

"  Tom  married  !  "  I  said  to  myself,  as  I  walked  along. 
I  dare  say  it  is  to  his  father's  pretty  ward,  Clara 
Maitland,  whom  I  saw  when  I  spent  the  day  there, 
eleven  years  ago.  I  remembered  what  long  curls  she 
had  and  how  fond  she  seemed  of  him.  "  Yes,  I  dare 
say  it's  to  Clara.  I  hope,  though,  she  hasn't  grown  up 
into  one  of  those  delicate  young  ladies,  good  for  noth- 
ing but  to  display  the  latest  fashions  and  waltz  a  little 
and  torture  the  piano.  Better  some  rosy,  sturdy 
German  Gretchen  than  a  poor  doll  like  them.  It  would 
be  a  shame  for  Tom,  with  his  splendid  physique  and 
vigorous  brain,  to  be  tied  for  life  to  such  a  woman !  " 
And  then,  turning  down  School  street,  my  thoughts 
wandered  off  to  a  blue-eyed  girl  I  had  loved  for  many 
a  year — a  girl  who  was  not  satisfied  with  the  small 
triumphs  of  the  croquet-ground,  but  who  could  send  an 
arrow  straight  home  to  the  mark ;  and  climb  the  hills 
with  me,  her  step  light  and  free  as,  {he  deer's  in  th.§ 


BY  EDNA  DEAN  PROCTOR.  \Ql 

glade  below  ;  and  hold  a  steady  oar  in  our  boat  on  the 
river ;  and  swim  ashore,  if  need  should  be ;  and  then, 
when  walk  or  row  was  over,  who  could  sit  down  to  a 
lunch  of  cold  meat  and  bread  and  butter  with  an  appe- 
tite as  keen  as  a  young  Indian's  after  a  day's  hunt ; 
yes,  and  who  knew  how  to  be  efficient  in  the  kitchen 
and  the  rarest  ornament  of  the  parlor.  How  impatient 
I  was  to  see  her,  the  bewitching  maiden  whom  a  prince 
might  be  proud  to  marry.  And  again  I  said  to  myself, 
as  I  went  up  the  Parker  House  steps  :  "  I  do  hope 
Tom  hasn't  made  a  fool  of  himself !  " 

Four  o'clock  found  me  at  the  station  ;  and  a  moment 
later  in  walked  Tom,  carrying  a  basket  filled  with 
Jersey  peaches.  "  They  don't  grow  in  Greenland," 
said  he,  tucking  the  paper  down  over  the  fruit.  "  Come 
this  way."  I  followed  him,  and  we  had  just  seated 
ourselves  comfortably  in  the  cars  when  the  train  moved 
off. 

"  Now  for  the  story,  Tom,1'  said  I,  as  we  crossed  the 
bridge  and  caught  the  breeze  cool  from  the  sea.  "  But 
I  can  guess  beforehand  the  girl  you  married ;  it  was 
Clara  Maitland." 

A  shadow  passed  over  Tom's  face.  "  Clara  has  been 
dead  four  years,"  said  he.  "  She  inherited  consumption 
from  her  mother.  We  did  everything  for  her — took 
her  to  Minnesota  and  Florida ;  but  it  was  no  use.  She 
didn't  live  to  see  her  eighteenth  birthday." 

"  Poor  Clara  !  She  loved  you  dearly.  Then  I  sup- 
pose you  chose  some  Boston  girl  of  your  acquaint- 
ance ? "  , 

"  Jack,  you  couldn't  tell  who  Mrs.  Tom  Foster  was 
if  you  should  try  from  now  till  morning.  I  shall  have 
to  enlighten  you."  And,  moving  the  basket  to  one  side 
and  settling  himself  in  his  seat,  he  went  on:  "You 
know  I  have  the  misfortune  to  bean  only  child.  After 
I  was  twenty-one,  father  and  mother  began  to  talk 
about  my  marrying.  I  have  plenty  of  cousins,  you 
know,  and  we  always  had  young  ladies  going  in  and 
out  of  the  house ;  but  while  Clara  lived  she  was  com- 
pany for  me,  and  after  she  died  I  was  full  of  business, 
and  didn't  trouble  myself  about  matrimony.  To  tell 
the  truth,  Jack,  I  didn't  fancy  the  girls.  Perhaps  I 
was  unfortunate  in  my  acquaintances ;  but  they  seemed 


102  TOM  FOSTER'S  WIFE. 

to  me  to  be  all  curls  and  flounces  and  furbelows,  and 
I  would  as  soon  have  thought  of  marrying  a  fashion- 
plate  as  one  of  these  elaborate  creatures.  I  don't 
object  to  style  ;  I  like  it.  But  you  can  see  fine  gowns 
and  bonnets  any  day  in  the  Washington  street  windows, 
and  my  ideal  of  a  woman  was  one  whose  dress  is  her 
least  attraction." 

"  Do  you  recollect  father's  former  partner,  Adam 
Lane  ?  He's  a  clever  old  gentleman  and  a  millionaire, 
and  father  has  the  greatest  liking  and  respect  for  him. 
He  has  two  daughters — one  married  years  ago :  and 
the  other,  much  younger,  father  fixed  upon  as  a  desira- 
ble wife  for  me.  I  rather  think  the  two  families  had 
talked  it  over  together  ;  at  any  rate,  Miss  Matilda 
came  to  Greenland  for  a  long  summer  visit.  She  is 
an  amiable  girl,  but  so  petted  and  spoiled  that  she  is 

food  for  nothing — undeveloped  in  mind  and  body, 
he  looked  very  gay  in  the  evening,  attired  in»  Jordan, 
Marsh  &  Co. 's  latest  importations.  But  she  was  always 
late  at  breakfast ;  she  didn't  dare  to  ride  horseback  ; 
she  couldn't  take  a  walk  without  stopping  to  rest  on 
every  stone  ;  and  once,  when  I  asked  her  if  she  had 
read  the  account  of  the  battle  of  Sedan,  she  looked  up, 
in  her  childish  way,  and  said,  'No,  Mr.  Foster.  News- 
papers are  so  tiresome.'  Bless  me !  what  should  1 
have  done  with  such  a  baby  ?  " 

"  A  year  ago  this  summer  I  was  very  much  confined 
at  the  store  ;  and,  when  August  came,  instead  of  spend- 
ing the  whole  month  at  home,  I  thought  I  would  have 
a  little  change,  and  so  I  went  down  for  a  fortnight  to 

the  Cliff  house,  on Beach.  It's  a  quiet,  pleasant 

resort,  and  you'll  always  find  from  fifty  to  one  hundred 
people  there  during  the  season.  The  landlord  is  a 
good  fellow,  and  a  distant  relative  of  mine.  I  thought 
he  looked  flurried  when  I  went  in,  and  after  a  few 
minutes  he  took  me  one  side  and  said  : 

"  'Tom,  you've  come  at  an  unlucky  time.  I  had  a 
very  good  cook,  that  I  got  from  Boston,  at  twenty  dol- 
lars a  week  ;  but  she's  a  high-tempered  woman.  Last 
evening  she  quarrelled  with  her  assistants,  this  morn- 
ing the  breakfast  was  all  in  confusion,  and  now  she's 
packing  her  trunk  to  leave  by  the  next  train.  In  two 
or  three  days  I  can  probably  get  another  one  down  in 


BY  EDNA  DEAN  PROCTOR.  103 

her  place  ;  but  what  we're  to  do  meanwhile  I  don't 
know.' 

"  '  But,  Norton,'  said  I,  '  isn't  there  some  one  near 
by  or  in  the  house  who  can  take  it  ? ' 

"  '  I  doubt  it,'  he  replied.  '  I've  half  a  dozen  girls 
from  the  vicinity  doing  upstairs  work — one  of  them 
from  your  town,  the  best  waiter  in  the  dining-room. 
But  I  suppose  all  of  them  would  either  be  afraid  of  the 
responsibility  or  think  it  beneath  them  to  turn  cook  ; 
though  they  would  have  plenty  of  help,  and,  earn 
twenty  dollars  where  they  now  get  three.' 

"  '  Who's  here  from  Greenland  ? '  I  asked,  for  I 
knew  something  of  almost  every  one  in  the  place. 

"  '  Mary  Lyford.' 

"  '  Mary  Lyford  ?  A  black-eyed,  light-footed  girl, 
about  twenty  years  old,  with  two  brothers  in  Colorado 
and  her  father  a  farmer  on  toward  Stratham  ? ' 

"  '  Yes,  the  very  same.' 

"  '  Why,  she's  the  prettiest  girl  in  Greenland,  at  least, 
I  thought  so  two  years  ago,  when  I  danced  with  her  at 
the  Thanksgiving  party  in  the  village  ;  and  I  heard 
last  fall  that  she  took  the  prize  at  the  Manchester  Fair 
for  the  best  loaf  of  bread.  But  why  is  she  here  ? ' 

"  '  Oh,  you  know  farmers  haven't  much  ready  money, 
and  I  suppose  she  wanted  to  earn  something  for  her- 
self, and  to  come  to  the  Beach,  like  the  rest  of  us. 
You  say  she  took  the  premium  for  her  bread.  I 
believe  I'll  go  into  the  dining-room  and  propose  to  give 
the  cook's  place  to  any  one  of  the  gins  who  would  like 
it  and  who  feels  competent  to  take  it.  I  must  do 
something,'  and,  looking  at  his  watch,  he  went  out. 

"  '  Ten  minutes  later  he  came  back,  clapping  his 
hands,  and  exclaimed  : 

"  'Mary  Lyford  says  she'll  try  it.' 

"  '  Hurrah  for  Greenland,'  cried  I.  Isn't  that 
plucky  ?  By  Jove  !  I  hope  she'll  succeed,  and  I  believe 
she  will.' 

"  '  You  mustn't  expect  much  to-day,'  said  Norton. 
'  Things  are  all  topsy-turvy  in  the  kitchen,  and  it'll 
take  some  time  tc  get  them  straightened  out.' 

"  Just  then  a  new  arrival  claimed  his  attention,  and 
with  a  serener  face  he  turned  away, 

"  Dinner  was  poor  that  day,  supper  was  little  better, 
and,  in  spite  of  Norton's  caution,  I  began  to  be  afraid 


104  TOM  FOSTERS  WIFE. 

that  Greenland  was  going  down.  But  the  next  morn- 
ing, what  a  breakfast  we  had — juicy  steaks,  hot  pota- 
toes, delicious  rolls  and  corn-bread,  griddle  cakes  that 
melted  in  your  mouth,  and  coffee  that  had  lost  none 
of  its  aroma  in  the  making.  Thenceforth  every  meal 
was  a  triumph.  The  guests  praised  the  table,'  and 
hastened  to  their  seats  at  the  first  sound  of  the  bell. 
Norton  was  radiant  with  satisfaction,  and  I  was  pleased 
as  if  I  had  been  landlord  or  cook  myself.  Several 
times  I  sent  my  compliments  and  congratulations  to 
Mary ;  but  she  was  so  constantly  occupied  that  I 
never  had  a  glimpse  of  her  till  the  night  before  I  was 
to  leave.  I  was  dancing  in  the  parlor,  and  had  just 
led  a  young  lady  of  the  Matilda  Lane  stamp  to  her 
mamma,  when  I  saw  Mary  standing  with  the  dining- 
room  girls  on  the  piazza.  I  went  out,  and,  shaking 
her  cordially  by  the  hand,  told  her  how  interested  I 
had  been  in  her  success,  and  how  proud  I  was  to  find 
a  Greenland  girl  so  accomplished.  She  blushed,  and 
thanked  me,  and  said,  in  a  modest  way,  that  she  was 
very  glad  if  we  were  all  suited  ;  and  then  Norton  came 
up  and  expressed  his  entire  gratification  with  what  she 
had  done.  As  she  stood  there  in  a  white  pique  dress, 
with  a  scarlet  bow  at  her  throat,  and  her  dark  hair 
neatly  arranged,  she  looked  every  inch  a  lady. 

"  '  Do  me  the  favor,  Miss  Lyford,  said  I,  to  dance 
the  next  cotillion  with  me.' 

"  '  Ah  !  Mr.  Foster,'  she  replied,  looking  archly  at 
Norton,  '  that  is'nt  -expected  of  the  help.' 

"  '  The  "help  "  !  I  said,  indignantly.  You  are  queen 
of  the  establishment,  and  I  invite  you  to  dance,  and  so 
does  Mr.  Norton.' 

"  '  Certainly,  I  do,'  he  answered.  '  Go  and  show  the 
company  that  you  are  at  home  in  the  parlor  as  well  as 
the  kitchen.1  So,  smiling  and  blushing,  she  took  my 
arm. 

"  '  Didn't  we  make  a  sensation  when  we  went  in ! 
Perhaps  there  was  no  fellow  there  with  a  better  '  social 
position '  (you  know  the  phrase)  than  I ;  and  I  had 
been  quite  a  favorite  with  the  ladies.  You  should 
have  seen  them  when  we  took  our  places  on  the  floor! 
Some  laughed,  some  frowned,  some  whispered  to  their 
neighbors ;  but  I  paid  not  the  slightest  attention  to  it 
all,  and  Mary  looked  so  pretty,  and  went  through  the 


B  Y  EDNA  DEAN  PROC  TOR.  1 05 

dance  with  such  grace  and  dignity,  that  before  it  was 
over  I  believe  all  regarded  her  with  admiration.  I 
didn't  wait  for  comments,  but  escorted  her  out  as  if  she 
had  been  the  belle  of  Boston.' 

" '  Good-night,  Miss  Lyford,'  I  said,  when  we 
reached  the  hall.  '  I  am  going  in  the  morning ;  but  I 
shall  see  you  again  when  you  get  back  to  Greenland.' 

" '  Good-night,  Mr.  Foster,'  she  replied,  '  I  thank 
you  for  your  kindness.'  Then  she  added,  laughing  ; 
'  Have  you  any  orders  for  breakfast  ? ' 

"  '  Why,  yes,  I  should  like  to  remember  you  by  a 
plate  of  such  muffins  as  we  had  yesterday.' 

" '  You  shall  have  them,  sir,'  she  said,  as  she  dis- 
appeared in  the  doorway.  And  have  them  I  did. 

"  Three  weeks  later  Mary  came  home  to  Greenland, 
with  more  than  a  hundred  dollars  in  her  purse  and  a 
fame  that  was  worth  thousands.  I  went  to  see  her  at 
her  father's  house.  I  found  her  in  every  way  excel- 
lent and  lovely ;  and  the  end  was  that  at  Christmas  we 
were  married." 

"  Glorious  !  "  I  exclaimed.  "  Give  me  your  hand, 
Tom !  I  was  afraid  you  had  been  taken  in  by  some 
Matilda  Lane." 

"  Do  you  think  I:m  a  fool ?  "  said  he. 

Then  I  told  him  of  my  own  choice,  and  I  was  still 
talking  when  the  train  stopped  at  the  Greenland  sta- 
tion. 

We  soon  arrived  at  his  hospitable  home.  His  wife 
was  all  he  had  pictured  her;  a  refined,  intelligent, 
handsome  woman,  who  would  develop  and  grow  in 
attractiveness  every  year  of  her  life.  After  a  merry 
evening  in  their  pleasant  parlor,  I  went  to  bed,  and 
dreamed  that  the  millennium  had  come,  and  that  all 
women  were  like  my  blue-eyed  girl  and  Mrs.  Tom  Fos- 
ter. 


Fourth  of  July  in  Jonesville. 


BY 


MARIETTA  HOLLEY. 


<~  "3*l££_ 

^^^» 


If 


MARIETTA  HOLLEY. 


Miss  HOLLEY  commenced  her  career  as  a  writer  when 
in  her  teens,  though  she  published  nothing  until  1876. 
When  she  was  a  young  girl  she  was  given  to  poetry, 
and  wrote  a  great  deal.  She  thought  she  should  like 
to  become  a  great  painter;  then  she  decided  to  be  a 
poet,  but  finally  abandoned  both  intentions  to  become 
"  Josiah  Allen's  wife,"  and  by  so  doing  made  herself 
famous.  In  the  year  1876  appeared  her  first  book, 
"  Samantha  at  the  Centennial,"  which  at  once  pleased 
the  popular  taste  and  led  her  to  follow  it  speedily  with 
a  second  book,  "  My  Opinions  and  Betsey  Bobbet's," 
which  proved  equally  successful.  Quaint,  grotesque 
humor  and  pathetic  homeliness  of  speech  are  the 
weapons  she  used  to  make  known  the  wrongs  of  her 
sex  and  the  evils  of  the  times  in  which  we  are  living. 
In  her  prose  works  she  mostly  employs  the  speech  of 
half-taught  people,  pinning  to  paper  their  ludicrous 
blunders,  and  turns  ridicule  against  ancient  wrongs, 
venerated  because  they  are  ancient.  Every  one  laughs 
at  the  absurdities  of  "  Josiah  Allen's  Wife,"  and  no 
one  forgets  the  crushing  exposures  of  fraud  and  oppres- 
sion which  she  makes. 

Says  a  writer  in  the  Woman 's  Journal:  "Miss 
Holley  has  improved  on  the  methods  of  Solomon's  day, 
by  robing  wisdom  in  the  garb  of  folly,  and  standing 
her  in  the  market  place  thus  disguised,  so  that  when 
the  multitudes  flock  about  her  and  feast  themselves 
with  laughter,  to  those  who  would  not  otherwise 
hatken,  suddenly — 

'Amid  the  market's  din 

Comes  the  ominous  stern  whisper  from  the  Delphic  cave  within, 
They  enslave  their  children's  children  who  so  make  compromise 
with  sin.' 

And  those  who  come   to  smile  remain  to  pray,  while 
8  "3 


114  MARIETTA  HOLLEY, 

those  who  expected  a  Bacchante,  awe-struck,  behold 
Minerva." 

Like  Dickens,  she  brings  to  her  aid  the  very  people 
whose  sufferings  she  aims  to  relieve,  and  whose  evil 
deeds  she  hopes  to  check.  She  is  not  only  quaint  in 
expression  but  magnetic,  and  her  sentiments  are  often 
touchingly  and  pathetically  strong.  "  Samantha  never 
went  to  school  much,  didn't  know  riothin'  about  gram- 
mar and  never  could  spell,"  but  she  has  in  her  pen 
the  power  of  Ithuriel's  spear,  whose  touch  revealed 
the  beauty  which  existed  in  everything. 

Miss  Holley's  latest  prose  work,  "  Sweet  Cicely," 
was  wrought  out  through  her  horror  of  intemperance 
and  her  desire  to  see  the  young  of  her  country  saved 
from  the  evils  of  strong  drink.  Her  latest  contribu- 
tion to  literature  is  a  book  of  poems,  which  reveal 
strength  and  tenderness,  but  have  failed  to  suit  the 
popular  taste  because  they  are  wanting  in  the  grotesque 
humor  and  pathetic  homeliness  of  style,  which  charac- 
terizes her  prose  works.  But  they  will  stand  the  test  of 
time,  and  be  read  when  Samantha's  trials  at  the  Cen- 
tennial will  have  been  forgotten.  Miss  Holley  is  a 
personality  of  whom  all  gracious  and  generous  things 
may  be  said.  She  is  a  strong,  loveable  woman  of  high 
ideals  and  innocent,  beautiful  life,  and  is  destined  to 
be  a  blessing  to  her  kind  as  long  as  she  lives  and  long 
beyond  her  day. 


FOURTH  OF  JULY  IN  JONES- 
VILLE. 


A  FEW  days  before  the  Fourth,  Betsey  Bobbet  came 
into  our  house  in  the  morning  and  says  she, 

"  Have  you  heard  the  news  ?  " 

"  No,"  says  I,  pretty  brief,  "  for  I  was  jest  puttin'  in 
the  ingrediences  to  a  six  quart  pan  loaf  of  fruit  cake, 
and  on  them  occasions  I  want  my  mind  cool  and  un- 
ruffled." 

"  Aspire  Todd  is  goin'  to  deliver  the  oration,"  says 
she. 

"  Aspire  Todd  !     Who's  he  ? "  says  I,  cooly. 

"Josiah  Allen's  wife,"  says  she,  "Have  you  for- 
gotten the  sweet  poem  that  thrilled  us  so  in  the  Jones- 
ville  Gimlet  a  few  weeks  since  ?  " 

"  I  hain't  been  thrilled  by  no  poem,"  says  I,  with  an 
almost  icy  face  pourin'  in  my  melted  butter. 

"  Then  it  must  be  that  you  have  never  seen  it.  I 
have  it  in  my  port  money  and  I  will  read  it  to  you," 
say.s  she,  not  heedin'  the  dark  froun  gatherin'  on  my 
eyebrow,  and  she  began  to  read  : 

A    QUESTIONING    SAIL    SENT   OVER  THE    MYSTIC 
SEA. 

BY   PROF.   ASPIRE  TODD. 

So  the  majestic  thunderbolt  of  feeling, 

Out  of  our  inner  lives  our  unseen  beings  flow» 

Vague  dreams  revealing, 

Oh,  is  it  so  ?     Alas!  or  no, 

How  be  it.     Ah  !  how  so  ? 

Is  matter  going  to  rule  the  deathless  mind? 
What  is  the  matter  ?     Is  it  indeed  so  ? 
Oh,  truths  combined  ; 

Do  the  Magaloi  theori  still  tower  to  and  fro  ? 
How  do  they  move  ?     How  flow? 

MS 


1 1 6  FOUR TH  OFJUL  Y  IN  JONESVILLE. 

Monstrous,  aeriform,  phantoms  sublime, 

Come  leer  at  n  e,  and  Cadmian  teeth  my  soul  gnaw, 

Through  chiliasms  of  time; 

Transcendentally  and  remorslessly  gnaw ; 

By  what  agency  ?     Is  it  a  law  ? 

Perish  the  vacueus  in  huge  immensities ; 
Hurl  the  broad  thunderbolt  of  lecling  free, 
The  vision  dies ; 

So  lulls  the  bellowing  surf,  upon  the  mystic  sea, 
Is  it  indeed  so  ?    Alas  !     Oh  me. 

"  How  this  sweet  poem  appeals  to  tender  hearts," 
says  Betsey,  as  she  concluded  it. 

"  How  it  appeals  to  tender  heads,"  says  I,  almost 
coldly,  measurin'  out  my  cinnamon  in  a  big  spoon. 

"Josiah  Allen's  wife,  has  not  your  soul  never  sailed 
on  that  mystical  sea  he  so  sweetly  depictures?  " 

"Not  an  inch,"  says  I,  firmly,  "  not  an  inch." 

"  Have  you  not  never  been  haunted  by  sorrowful 
phantoms  you  would  fain  bury  in  oblivion's  sea  ?  " 

"  Not  once,"  says  I,  "  not  a  phantom,"  and  says  I, 
as  I  measured  out  my  raisons  and  English  currants, 
"if  folks  would  work  as  I  do,  from  mornin'  till  night 
and  earn  their  honest  bread  by  the  sweat  of  their  eye- 
brows, they  wouldn't  be  tore  so  much  by  phantoms  as 
they  be ;  it  is  your  shiftless  creeters  that  are  always 
bein'  gored  by  phantoms,  and  havin'  'em  leer  at  'em," 
says  I  with  my  spectacles  bent  keenly  on  her.  "  Why 
don't  they  leer  at  me,.  Betsey  Bobbet  ?  " 

"  Because  you  are  intellectually  blind,  you  cannot 
see." 

"  I  see  enough,"  says  I,  "  I  see  more'n  I  want  to  a 
good  deal  of  the  time."  In  a  dignified  silence,  I  then 
chopped  my  raisons  impressively,  and1  Betsey  started 
for  home. 

The  celebration  was  held  in  Josiah's  sugar  bush,  and 
I  meant  to  be  on  the  ground  in  good  season,  for  when 
I  have  jobs  I  dread,  I  am  for  takin'  'em  by  the  fore- 
lock and  grapplin'  with  'em  at  once.  But  as  I  was 
bakin'  my  last  plum  puddin'  and  chicken  pie,  the  folks 
begun  to  stream  by;  I  hadn't  no  idee  there  could  be  so 
many  folks  scairt  up  in  Jonesville.  I  thought  to  my- 
self, I  wonder  if  they'd  flock  out  so  to  a  prayer-meetin'. 
But  they  kep'  a  comin',  all  kind  of  folks,  in  all  kinds  of 
vehicles,  from  a  six  horse  team,  down  to  peacible 


B Y  MISS  MARIE TTA  NOLLE Y.  UJ 

lookin'  men  and  wimmen  drawin'  baby  wagons,  with 
two  babies  in  most  of  'em. 

There  was  a  stagin'  built  in  most  the  middle  of  the 
grove  for  the  leadin'  men  of  Jonesville,  and  some 
board  seats  all  round  it  for  %e  folks  to  set  on.  As 
Josiah  owned  the  ground,  he  was  invited  to  set  upon 
the  stagin'. 

And  as  I  glanced  up  at  that  man  every  little  while 
through  the  day,  I  thought  proudly  to  myself,  there 
may  be  nobler  lookin'  men  there,  and  men  that  would 
weigh  more  by  the  steelyards,  but  their  haint  a  whiter 
shirt  bosom  there  than  Josiah  Allen's. 

When  I  got  there  the  seats  were  full.  Betsey  Bob- 
bet  was  jest  ahead  of  me,  and  says  she  : 

"  Come  on,  Josiah  Allen's  wife,  let  us  have  a  seat ; 
we  can  obtain  one,  if  we  push  and  scramble  enough." 
As  I  looked  upon  her  carryin'  out  her  doctrine,  pushin' 
and  scrambling  I  thought  to  myself,  if  I  didn't  know 
to  the  contrary,  I  never  should  take  you  for  a  modest 
dignifier  and  retirer.  And  as  I  beheld  her  breathin' 
hard,  and  her  elboes  wildly  wavin'  in  the  air,  pushin' 
in  between  native  men  of  Jonesville  and  foreigners,  I 
again  methought,  I  don't  believe  you  would  be  so 
sweaty  and  out  of  breath  a  votin'  as  you  be  now. 
And  as  I  watched  her  labors  and  efforts  I  continued 
to  methink  sadly,  how  strange !  how  strange !  that 
retirin'  modesty  and  delicacy  can  stand  so  firm  in 
some  situations,  and  then  be  so  quickly  overthrowed 
in  others  seemin'ly  not  near  so  hard. 

Betsey  finally  got  a  seat,  wedged  in  between  a  large 
healthy  Irishman  and  a  native  constable,  and  she  mo- 
tioned for  me  to  come  on,  at  the  same  time  pokin'  a 
respectable  old  gentleman  in  front  of  her,  with  her 
parasol,  to  make  him  move  along.  Says  I : 

"  I  may  as  well  die  one  way  as  another,  as  well 
expier  a  standin'  up,  as  to  tryin'  to  get  a  seat,"  and  I 
quietly  leaned  up  against  a  hemlock  tree  and  composed 
myself  for  events.  A  man  heard  my  words  which  I 
spoke  about  one-half  to  myself,  and  says  he  : 

"  Take  my  seat,  mum." 

Says  I :  "  No,  keep  it." 

Says  he  :  "I  am  jest  comin'  down  with  a  fit,  I  have 
got  to  leave  the  ground  instantly." 

Says  I :    "In  them  cases  I  will."     So  I  sot.     His 


1 1 8  POUR  TH  OFJUL  Y  IN  JONESVILLE. 

tongue  seemed  thick,  and  his  breath  smelt  of  brandy, 
but  I  make  no  insinuations. 

About  noon,  Prof.  Aspire  Todd  walked  slowly  on  to 
the  ground,  arm  in  arm  with  the  editor  of  the  Gimlet, 
old  Mr.  Bobbet  follerin'  him  closely  behind.  Countin' 
two  eyes  to  a  person,  and  the  exceptions  are  triflin', 
there  was  seven  hundred  and  fifty  or  sixty  eyes  aimed  at 
him  as  he  walked  through  the  crowd.  He  was  dressed  in 
a  new  shinin'  suit  of  black,  his  complexion  was  deathly, 
his  hair  was  jest  turned  from  white,  and  was  combed 
straight  back  from  his  forward  and  hung  down  long, 
over  his  coat  collar.  He  had  a  big  moustache,  about 
the  color  of  his  hair,  only  bearin'  a  little  more  on  the 
sandy,  and  a  couple  of  pale  blue  eyes  with  a  pair  of 
spectacles  over  'em. 

As  he  walked  upon  the  stagin'  behind  the  Editer  of 
the  Gimlet,  the  band  struck  up,  "  Hail  to  the  chief, 
that  in  triumph  advances. '  As  soon  as  it  stopped 
playin'  the  Editer  of  the  Gimlet  come  forward  and 
said  : 

"  Fellow  citizens  of  Jonesville  and  the  adjacent  and 
surroundin'  world,  I  have  the  honor  and  privilege  of 
presenting  to  you  the  orator  of  the  day,  the  noble  and 
eloquent  Prof.  Aspire  Todd,  Esq." 

Professor  Todd  came  forward  and  made  a  low  bow. 

"  Bretheren  and  sisters  of  Jonesville,"  says  he ; 
"Friends  and  patrons  of  Liberty,  in  risin'  upon  this 
aeroter,  I  have  signified  by  that  act,  a  desire  and  a 
willingness  to  address  you.  I  am  not  here,  fellow  and 
sister  citizens,  to  outrage  your  feelings  by  triflin' 
remarks.  I  am  not  here,  male  patrons  of  liberty,  to 
lead  your  noble,  and  you  female  patrons,  your  tender 
footsteps  into  the  flowery  fields  of  useless  rhetorical 
eloquence ;  I  am  here  noble  brothers  and  sisters  of 
Jonesville  not  in  a  mephitical  manner,  and  I  trust  not 
in  a  mentorial,  but  to  present  a  few  plain  truths  in  a 
plain  manner,  for  your  consideration.  My  friends,  we 
are  in  one  sense  but  tennifolious  blossoms  of  life  ;  or, 
if  you  will  pardon  the  tergiversation,  we  are  all  but 
mineratin'  tennirosters,  hovering  upon  an  illinition  of 
mythoplasm." 

"Jes'  so,"  cried  old  Bobbet,  who  was  settin'  on  a 
bench  right  under  the  speaker's  stand,  with  his  fat 
red  face  lookin'  up  shinin'  with  pride  and  enthusiasm 


B  Y  A//SS  MA KIE TTA  HOL LEY.  119 

(and  the  brandy  he  had  took  to  honor  the  old  Revolu- 
tionary heroes),  "jes'  so!  so  we  be!" 

Professor  Todd  looked  down  on  him  in  a  troubled 
kind  of  a  way  for  a  minute,  and  then  went  on  : 

"  Noble  inhabitants  of  Jonesville  and  the  rural  dis- 
tricts, we  are  actinolitic  bein's  ;  each  of  our  souls,  like 
the  acalphia,  radiates  a  circle  of  prismatic  tentacles, 
showing  the  divine  irridescent  essence  of  which  com- 
posed are  they." 

"Jes'  so,"  shouted  old  Bobbet,  louder  than  before. 
"  Jes'  so,  so  they  did,  I've  always  said  so." 

"And  if  we  are  content  to  moulder  out  our  existence, 
like  fibrous,  veticulated,  polypus,  clingin'  to  the  crus- 
taceous  courts  of  custom,  if  we  cling  not  like  soarin' 
prytanes  to  the  phantoms  that  lower  their  sceptres 
down  through  the  murky  waves  of  retrogression,  en- 
deavorin'  to  lure  us  upward  in  the  scale  of  progressive 
bein',  in  what  degree  do  we  differ  from  the  accol- 
phia? " 

"Jes'  so,"  says  old  Bobbet,  lookin'  defiantly  round 
on  the  audience.  "  There  he  has  got  you,  how  can 
they?" 

Professor  Todd  stopped  again,  looked  doun  on  Bob- 
bet,  and  put  his  hand  to  his  brow  in  a  wild  kind  of  a 
way,  for  a  minute,  and  then  went  on. 

"  Let  us,  noble  brethren  in  the  broad  field  of  hu- 
manity, let  us  rise,  let  us  prove  that  mind  is  superior 
10  the  acalphia." 

"  Yes,  less,"  says  old  Bobbet,  "  less  prove  our- 
selves." 

"  Let  us  shame  the  actinia,"  said  the  Professor. 

"Yes,  jes'  so!  "  shouted  old  Bobbet,  "less  shame 
him  ! "  and  in  his  enthusiasm  he  got  up  and  hollered 
agin,  "  Less  shame  him." 

Professor  Todd  stopped  stone  still,  his  face  red  as 
blood,  he  drinked  several  swallows  of  water,  and  then 
he  whispered  a  few  words  to  the  Editer  of  the  Gimlet, 
who  immediately  came  forward  and  said  : 

"  Although  it  is  a  scene  of  touchin'  beauty,  to  see  an 
old  gentleman,  and  a  bald-headed  one,  so  in  love  with 
eloquence,  and  to  give  such  remarkable  proofs  of  it  at 
his  age,  still  as  it  is  the  request  of  my  young  friend, 
and  I  am  proud  to  say,  'My  young  friend,'  in  regard 
to  one  gifted  in  so  remarkable  a  degree,  at  his  request 


1 2O  FOUR  TH  OFJUL  Y  IN  JONES  VILLE. 

I  beg  to  be  permitted  to  hint,  that  if  the  bald-headed 
old  gentleman  in  the  linen  coat  can  conceal  his  admi- 
ration, and  suppress  his  applause,  he  will  confer  a  favor 
on  my  gifted  young  friend,  and  through  him  indirectly 
to  Jonesville,  to  America,  and  the  great  cause  of 
humanity,  throughout  the  length  and  breadth  of  the 
country." 

Here  he  made  a  low  bow  and  sot  down.  Professor 
Todd  continued  his  piece  without  any  more  interrup- 
tion, till  most  the  last,  he  wanted  the  public  of  Jones- 
ville to  "droun  black  care  in  the  deep  waters  of 
oblivion,  mind  not  her  mad  throes  of  dissolvin'  bein', 
but  let  the  deep  waters  cover  her  black  head,  and 
march  onward." 

Then  the  old  gentleman  forgot  himself,  and  sprung 
up  and  hollered — 

"  Yes !  droun  the  black  cat,  hold  her  head  under ! 
What  if  she  is  mad !  don't  mind  her  screamin' !  there 
will  be  cats  enough  left  in  the  world !  do  as  he  tells 
you  to  !  less  droun  her  !  " 

Professor  Todd  finished  in  a  few  words,  and  set 
down  lookin'  gloomy  and  morbid. 

The  next  speaker  was  a  large,  healthy  lookin'  man, 
who  talked  aginst  wimmin's  rights.  He  didn't  bring 
up  no  new  arguments,  but  talked  as  they  all  do  who 
oppose  'em.  About  wimmin  outragin'  and  destroyin' 
their  modesty,  by  bein'  in  the  same  street  with  a  man 
once  every  'lection  day.  And  he  talked  grand  about 
how  woman's  weakness  aroused  all  the  shivelry  and 
nobility  of  a  man's  nature,  and  how  it  was  his  dearest 
and  most  sacred  privilege  and  happiness,  to  protect 
her  from  even  a  summer's  breeze,  if  it  dared  to  blow 
too  hard  on  her  beloved  and  delicate  form. — Why, 
before  he  got  half  through,  a  stranger  from  another 
world  who  had  never  seen  a  woman,  wouldn't  have  had 
the  least  idee  that  they  was  made  of  clay  as  man  was, 
but  would  have  thought  they  was  made  of  some  thin 
gauze,  liable  at  any  minute  to  blow  away,  and  that 
man's  only  employment  was  to  stand  and  watch  'em, 
for  fear  some  zephyr  would  get  the  advantage  of  'em. 
He  called  wimmin  every  pretty  name  he  could  think 
of,  and  says  he,  wavin'  his  hands  in  the  air  in  a  rapped 
eloquence,  and  beatin'  his  breast  in  the  same  he 
cried,  "  Shall  these  weak,  helpless  angels,  these  sera- 


B  Y  MISS  MA  RIE  TTA  HOLLE  Y.  121 

phines,  these  sweet,  delicate,  cooin'  doves — whose  only 
mission  it  is  to  sweetly  coo — these  rainbows,  these 
posys  vote  ?  Never !  my  brethren,  never  will  we  put 
such  hardships  upon  'em." 

As  he  sot  down,  he  professed  himself  and  all  the 
rest  of  his  sect  ready  to  die  at  any  time,  and  in  any 
way  wimmin  should  say,  rather  than  they  should  vote, 
or  have  any  other  hardship.  Betsey  Bobbet  wept 
aloud,  she  was  so  delighted  with  it.  Jest  as  they  con- 
cluded their  frantic  cheers  over  his  speech,  a  thin, 
feeble  lookin'  woman  come  by  where  I  stood,  drawin' 
a  large  baby  wagon  with  two  children  in  it,  seemingly 
a  two-year-old,  and  a  yearlin'.  She  also  carried  one 
in  her  arms  who  was  lame.  She  looked  so  beat  out 
and  so  ready  to  drop  down,  that  I  got  up  and  gave  her 
my  seat,  and  says  I : 

"  You  look  ready  to  fall  down." 

"  Am  I  too  late,"  says  she,  "  to  hear  my  husband's 
speech  ? " 

"  Is  that  your  husband,"  says.  I,  "  that  is  laughin*  and 
talkin'  with  that  pretty  girl  ? " 

"  Yes,"  said  she  with  a  sort  of  troubled  look. 

"  Well,  he  jest  finished." 

She  looked  ready  to  cry,  and  as  I  took  the  lame 
child  from  her  breakin'  arms,  says  I 

"  This  is  too  hard  for  you." 

"  I  wouldn't  mind  gettin'  'em  on  to  the  ground," 
says  she,  "  I  haint  had  only  three  miles  to  bring  'em  ; 
that  wouldn't  be  much  if  it  wasn't  for  the  work  I  had 
to  do  before  I  come." 

"  What  did  you  have  to  do  ? "  says  I  in  pityin' 
accents. 

"  Oh,  I  had  to  fix  him  off,  brush  his  clothes  and 
black  his  boots,  and  then  I  did  up  all  my  work,  and 
then  I  had  to  go  out  and  make  six  lengths  of  fence — 
the  cattle  broke  into  the  corn  yesterday,  and  he  was 
busy  writin'  his  piece,  and  couldn't  fix  it — and  then  I 
had  to  mend  his  coat,"  glancin'  at  a  thick  coat  in  the 
wagon.  "  He  didn't  know  but  he  should  want  it  to 
wear  home.  He  knew  he  was  goin'  to  make  a  great 
effort,  and  thought  he  should  sweat  some  ;  he  is  dread- 
ful easy  to  take  eold,"  said  she  with  a  worried  look. 

"  Why  didn't  he  help  you  along  with  the  children  ? " 
$aid  I,  in  a  indignant  tone. 


122  FOURTH  OF  JULY  IN  JONES  VILLE. 

"  Oh,  he  said  he  had  to  make  a  great  exertion  to-day, 
and  he  wanted  to  have  his  mind  free  and  clear;  he  is 
one  of  the  kind  that  can't  have  their  minds  tram- 
meled." 

"  It  would  do  him  good  to  be  trammeled  hard  !  " 
says  I,  lookin'  darkly  at  him. 

•'  Don't  speak  so  of  him,"  says  she  beseechingly. 

"  Are  you  satisfied  with  his  doin's  ?  "  says  I,  lookin' 
keenly  at  her. 

"  Oh  yes,"  says  she  in  a  trustin'  tone,  liftin'  her 
care-worn,  weary  countenance  to  mine,  "  Oh  yes,  you 
don't  know  how  beautiful  he  can  talk" 

I  said  no  more,  for  it  is  a  invincible  rule  of  my  life, 
not  to  make  no  disturbances  in  families.  But  I  gave 
the  yearlin'  pretty  near  a  pound  of  candy  on  the  spot, 
and  the  glances  I  cast  on  him  and  the  pretty  girl  he 
was  a-flirtin'  with,  was  cold  enough  to  freeze  'em  both 
into  a  male  and  female  glazier. 

Lawyer  Nugent  now  got  up  and  said,  "  That  whereas 
the  speaking  was  foreclosed,  or  in  other  words  finished, 
he  motioned  they  should  adjourn  to  the  dinner  table, 
as  the  fair  committee  had  signified  by  a  snowy  signal 
that  fluttered  like  a  dove  of  promise  above  waves  of 
emerald,  or  in  plainer  terms  by  a  towel,  that  dinner 
was  forthcoming  ;  whereas  he  motioned  they  should 
adjourn  sine  die  to  the  aforesaid  table." 

Old  Mr.  Bobbet,  and  the  Editer  of  the  Gimlet 
seconded  the  motion  at  the  same  time.  And  Shake- 
speare Bobbet  wantin'  to  do  somethin'  in  a  public  way, 
got  up  and  motioned  "  that  they  proceed  to  the  table 
on  the  usial  road,"  but  there  wasn't  any  other  way — 
only  to  wade  the  creek — that  didn't  seem  to  be  nec- 
essary, but  nobody  took  no  notice  of  it,  so  it  was  jest 
as  well. 

The  dinner  was  good,  but  there  was  an  awful  crowd 
round  the  tables,  and  I  was  glad  I  wore  my  old  lawn 
dress,  for  the  children  was  thick,  and  so  was  bread 
and  butter,  and  sass  of  all  kinds,  and  jell  tarts.  And 
I  hain't  no  shirk;  I  jess  plunged  right  into  the  heat  of 
the  battle,  as  you  may  say,  waitin'  on  the  children,  and 
the  spots  on  my  dress  skirt  would  have  been  too  much 
for  any  body  that  couldn't  count  forty.  To  say  noth- 
in'  about  old  Mr.  Peedick  steppin'  through  the  back 
breadth,  and  Betsey  Bobbet  ketchin'  holt  of  me  and 


BY  AfISS  MARIETTA  HOLLEY.  12$ 

rippin'  it  off  the  waist  as  much  as  half  a  yard.  And 
then  a  horse  started  up  behind  the  widder  Tubbs,  as  I 
was  bendin'  down  in  front  of  her  to  get  somethin'  out 
of  a  basket,  and  she  weighin'  above  200,  was  precipi- 
tated onto  my  straw  bonnet,  jammin'  it  down  almost  as 
flat  as  it  was  before  it  was  braided.  I  came  off  pretty 
well  in  other  respects,  only  about  two  yards  of  the 
rufflin'  of  my  black  silk  cape  was  tore  by  two  boys 
who  got  to  fightin'  behind  me,  and  bein'  blind  with 
rage  tore  it  off,  thinkin'  they  had  got  holt  of  each 
other's  hair.  There  was  a  considerable  number  of 
toasts  drank ;  I  can't  remember  all  of  'em,  but  among 
'em  was  these,  "  The  eagle  of  Liberty  ;  May  her  quills 
lengthen  till  the  proud  shadow  of  her  wings  shall 
sweetly  rest  on  every  land." 

"The  Fourth  of  July;  the  star  which  our  old  four 
fathers  tore  from  the  ferocious  mane  of  the  howling 
lion  of  England,  and  set  in  the  calm  and  majestic  brow 
of  E.  pluribus  nnnum.  May  it  gleam  wilh  brighter  and 
brighter  radience,  till  the  lion  shall  hide  his  dazzled 
eyes,  and  cower  like  a  stricken  lamb  at  the  feet  of  E. 
pluribus"  " Dr.  Bombus,  our  respected  citizen  ;  how 
he  tenderly  ushers  us  into  a  world  of  trial,  and  profes- 
sionally and  scientifically  assists  us  out  of  it.  May  his 
troubles  be  as  small  as  his  morphine  powders,  and  the 
circle  of  his  joys  as  well  rounded  as  his  pills." 

"  The  press  of  Jonesville,  the  Gimlet,  and  the  Augur ; 
May  they  perforate  the  crust  of  ignorance  with  a  gigan- 
tic hole,  through  which  blushing  civilization  can  sweet- 
ly peer  into  futurity." 

"  The  fair  sect :  first  in  war,  first  in  peace,  and  first 
in  the  hearts  of  their  countrymen.  May  them  that  love 
the  aforesaid,  flourish  like  a  green  bayberry  tree, 
whereas  may  them  that  hate  them,  dwindle  down  as 
near  to  nothin'  as  the  bonnets  of  the  aforesaid."  That 
piece  of  toast  was  Lawyer  Nugent's.  Prof.  Aspire 
Todd's  was  the  last. 

"  The  Luminous  Lamp  of  Progression,  whose  scia- 
therical  shadows  falling  upon  earthly  matter,  not 
promoting  sciolism,  or  Siccity  ;  may  it  illumine  human- 
ity as  it  tardigradely  floats  from  matter's  aquius  wastes, 
to  minds  majestic  and  apyrous  climes." 

Shakespeare  Bobbet  then  rose  up,  and  says  he: — 

"  Before  we  leave  this  joyous  grove  I  have  a  poem 


1 24  FOURTH  OFJUL  Y  IN  JONESVILLE. 

which  I  was  requested  to  read  to  you.     It  is  dedicated 
to  the  Goddess  of  Liberty,  and  was  transposed  by  an- 
other female,  who  modestly  desires  her  name  not  to  be 
mentioned  any  further  than  the  initials  B.  B." 
He  then  read  the  follerin'  spirited  lines : 

Before  all  causes  East  or  West, 

I  love  the  Liberty  cause  the  best, 

I  love  its  cheerful  greetings ; 

No  joys  on  earth  can  e'er  be  found, 

Like  those  pure  pleasures  that  abound, 

At  Jonesville  Liberty  meetings. 

To  all  the  world  I  give  my  hand, 
My  heart  is  with  that  noble  band, 
The  Jonesville  Liberty  brothers ; 
May  every  land  preserved  be, 
Each  climed  that  dates  on  Liberty — 
Jonesville  before  all  others. 

The  picknick  never  broke  up  till  most  night.  I  went 
home  a  little  while  before  it  broke,  and  if  there  was  a 
beat  out  creeter,  I  was ;  I  jest  dropped  my  delapidated 
form  into  a  rockin'  chair  with  a  red  cushion  and  says  I, 
"Then  needn't  be  another  word  said;  I  will  never  go 
to  another  Fourth  as  long  as  my  name  is  Josiah  Allen's 
wife." 

"  You  hain't  patriotic  enough,  Semantha,"  says 
Josiah;  "you  don't  love  your  country." 

"What  good  has  it  done  the  nation  to  have  me  all 
tore  to  pieces  ?  "  says  I.  "  Look  at  my  dress,  look  at 
my  bonnet  and  cape  !  Any  one  ought  to  be  a  ironclad 
to  stand  it !  Look  at  my  dishes  !  "  says  I. 

"I  guess  the  old  heroes  of  the  Revolution  went 
through  more  than  that,  "  says  Josiah.  "  Well,  I  hain't 
a  old  hero  !  "  says  I  coolly. 

"  Well,  you  can  honor  'em,  can't  you  ?  " 

"  Honor  'em  !  Josiah  Allen,  what  good  has  it  done 
old  Mr.  Lafayette  to  have  my  newearthern  pie  plates 
smashed  to  bits,  and  a  couple  of  tines  broke  off  of  one 
of  my  best  forks  ?  What  good  has  it  done  to  old 
Thomas  Jefferson,  to  have  my  lawn  dress  tore  off  me 
by  Betsey  Bobbet  ?  What  benefit  has  it  been  to  John 
Adams,  or  Isaac  Putnam,  to  have  old  Peedick  step 
through  it  ?  What  honor  has  it  been  to  George  Wash- 
ington to  have  my  straw  bonnet  flatted  down  tight  to 


B  Y  MISS  MA RIE TTA  HOLLE  Y.  12$ 

my  head  ?  I  am  sick  of  this  talk  abaut  honorin',  and 
liberty  and  duty,  I  am  sick  of  it,"  says  I ;  "Folks  will 
make  a  pack-horse  of  duty,  and  ride  it  to  circus'es  and 
bull  rights,  if  we  had  'em.  You  may  talk  about  honor- 
in'  the  old  heroes  and  goin'  through  all  these  perform- 
ances to  please  'em.  But  if  they  are  in  Heaven  they 
can  get  along  with  heerin'  the  Jonesville  brass  band, 
and  if  they  haint,  they  are  probably  where  fireworks 
haint  much  of  a  rari'ty  to  'em. 

Josiah  quailed  before  my  lofty  tone  and  I  relapsed 
into  a  weary  and  delapidated  silence. 


ft* 


c 


NORA  PERRY. 


SOMETIME  in  the  "  seventies  "  there  appeared  in  the 
Boston  and  other  papers,  printed,  reprinted,  copied  one 
from  the  other,  a  charming,  touching  little  poem  called 
"  After  the  Ball."  Ever  since  its  first  appearance  in 
its  fugitive  state,  the  name  of  Nora  Perry  has  been  a 
loved  and  familiar  one  to  all  persons,  men  or  women, 
possessing  any  feeling  or  imagination.  This  poem  which 
was  some  times  printed  under  the  title  of  "  Madge 
and  Maud "  was  afterwards  incorporated  in  a  book 
with  other  poems,  published  in  Boston  in  1874,  but  the 
many  sweet  verses  that  Nora  Perry  has  written  since 
that  lime,  have  never  blotted  out  from  the  memory  of 
her  readers  that  lovely  picture  of  the  two  maidens, 
who, 

"  Sat  and  combed  their  beautiful  hair 
After  the  revel  was  don1;." 

Nora  Perry  was  born  in  Massachusetts  in  1841,  but 
the  family  early  removed  to  Providence,  in  Rhode 
Island.  Her  father  was  a  merchant  in  good  standing 
and  repute,  and  his  daughter  received  her  education 
chiefly  at  home  and  in  private  schools.  When  about 
eighteen  Nora  commenced  writing  for  the  magazines, 
her  first  serial  story  being  "  Rosiland  Newcomb," 
which  was  published  in  Harpers  1859-60.  Much 
of  her  time  in  later  years  was  spent  in  Boston,  whence 
she  wrote  society  letters  for  the  Chicago  Tribune,  and 
also  became  Boston  correspondent  to  the  most  influen- 
tial paper  in  Rhode  Island,  the  Providence  Journal. 
At  intervals  she  was  in  the  habit  of  collecting  her  maga- 
zine contributions  and  issuing  them  in  book  form, 
dainty  little  volumes,  such  as  are  often  classed  as 
"  summer  reading  ."  In  this  shape  appeared  in  1880 
"  The  Tragedy  of  the  Unexpected  and  Other  Stories," 
which  by  the  way  is  no  tragedy  at  all,  but  a  pleasant 
133 


134  NORA  PERKY. 

little  summer  idyl.  In  1881  followed  a  "Book  of  Love 
Stories,"  the  very  title  of  which  endeared  it  to  all  the 
youthful  devourers  of  "  something  new  "  not  requir- 
ing too  much  thought.  In  1885  we  have  from  her  pen 
the  interesting  novelette  "  For  a  Woman  " ;  in  1886  a 
volume  of  "New  Songs  and  Ballads " ;  and  so 
late  as  1887  "A  Flock  of  Girls. ''  In  her  last  volume 
of  poems,  there  are  several  of  as  high  literary  merit  as 
that  to  which  we  have  referred  and  which  has  so  per- 
sistently clung  in  the  memories  of  her  readers — 
"After  the  Ball,"  but  none  we  think  which  holds  the 
sympathies  so  completely.  Among  the  best  may  be 
noted  "  Her  Lover's  Friend,"  "Lady  Wentworth,"  and 
a  piece  of  fine  imagination  entitled  "  The  Maid  of 
Honor." 

To  most  readers  we  think  Nora  Perry  offers  a 
refreshing  peculiarity  in  her  prose  writings,  that  of 
abstaining  from  any  obvious  moral  purpose  in  her 
stories ;  not  but  that  such  moral  uses  may  be  drawn 
from  them  by  the  rigid  utilitarians,  who  are  never  satis- 
fied with  a  book  or  any  object  merely  for  its  pleasant 
interest  or  its  beauty,  if  they  cannot  extract  some  wise 
maxim  of  life  or  practical  use  for  it, 

Nora  Perry  we  believe  has  never  written  a  line 
which  the  most  super-critical  prude  might  not  approve, 
but  it  is  a  relief  now  and  then  to  read  a  story,  simply 
for  the  story's  sake,  without  having  its  wisdom-lesson 
thrust  upon  one  in  every  paragraph,  or  peeping  up 
between  the  lines,  compelling  one  to  recognize  the 
presence  of  a  mentor,  when  one  seeks  only  recreation, 
beauty  and  refreshment  for  the  weary  mind,  jaded  with 
study,  or  the  digestion  of  overmuch  ethics. 


DOROTHY. 


DOROTHY  was  going  to  her  first  party.  She  wa& 
dressed  in  a  fine  white  wrought  muslin,  which  had 
rather  a  short,  scant  skirt,  with  a  little  three-inch  ruffle 
round  the  bottom.  It  had  also  a  short  waist  antt 
short,  puffy  sleeves,  with  frills  of  lace  that  fell  softly 
against  the  young,  girlish  arms  with  a  very  pretty 
effect.  About  the  waist  a  sash  of  rose-colored  lute- 
string was  tied  in  a  great  bow.  The  fringed  ends  fell 
almost  to  the  hem  of  the  three-inch  ruffle,  and  seemed 
to  point  to  the  white  kid  slippers,  with  their  diamond 
buckles,  that  were  plainly  visible  beneath  the  short 
skirt. 

Dorothy  was  ready  a  full  half-hour  belore  it  was  time 
to  go,  so  that  she  had  ample  opportunity  after  her 
mother  and  Phoebe — the  little  m?ld — had  left  her,  fora 
good  many  last  finishing  touches  and  final  glances  at 
herself;  and  you  may  be  sure  she  was  no  more  sparing 
of  these  than  any  other  young  girl  of  seventeen,  dressed 
for  her  first  party. 

As  she  stands  before  the  glass,  giving  her  long  mitts 
an  extra  pull,  or  settling  the  rebellious  curls  above  her 
forehead,  or  patting  the  sleeve  puffs  carefully,  she 
makes  a  very  pretty  picture — a  pretty  picture  and  a 
quaint  one,  for  the  costume  is  of  the  Revolutionary 
period.  As  I  set  her  thus  before  you,  you  think  you  are 
legarding  a  young  girl  of  to-day  perhaps,  decked  out 
for  some  fancy  dress  party  in  this  old-time  dress,  but 
Dorothy  belongs  to  the  time  of  her  dress. 

She  is,  or  was,  the  daughter  of  Mr.  Richard  Merri- 
dew,  of  Boston,  a  gentleman,  who,  from  the  first,  had 
ranged  himself  with  those  who  protested  against  the 
exactions  of  the  British  crown.  A  gentleman  of 
fortune,  his  acquaintance  was  largely  with  the  aris- 
tocracy of  the  country,  who  were  mostly,  if  not  all, 


136  DOROTHY. 

Tories.  Dorothy's  natural  associates,  therefore,  were 
the  sons  and  daughters  of  these  Tories. 

But  visiting  was  not  a  free-and-easy  matter  with 
young  people  of  her  class,  as  it  is  now  ;  and  brought  up 
carefully  at  home,  under  private  instruction,  she  had 
no  opportunities  for  school  intimacies.  The  company 
she  had  seen  the  most  of  up  to  this  time  had  been  her 
father's  and  mother's  friends.  Now  and  then  they 
brought  with  them  on  their  visits  some  one  of  the 
younger  members  of  their  families,  and  thus  had 
sprung  up  an  acquaintance  which,  while  it  formed  an 
agreeable  variety  in  Dorothy's  life,  was  not  of  the  in- 
timate and  confidential  kind  that  exists  between  young 
girls  of  this  day.  Indeed,  intimacies  of  that  kind 
would  have  been  thought  forward  and  improper,  and 
would  scarcely  have  been  permitted. 

During  the  last  year  or  two  before  Dorothy's  seven- 
teenth birthday,  there  had  been  little  tea-party  civilities 
exchanged  between  the  young  people,  and  if  you  could 
have  looked  in  upon  these  parties,  you  would  have 
seen  a  picture  for  all  the  world  exactly  like  that  quaint 
picture  that  Kate  Greenaway  has  in  her  pretty  book, 
"  Under  the  Window,"  where  Phillis  and  Belinda  are 
sitting  in  a  garden  before  a  small  tea-table  ;  charming 
little  maids  in  their  straight,  scant  dresses  and  long 
sashes  and  black  net  mitts.  But  these  were  only  mild, 
little-girl  affairs,  of  the  afternoon,  and  not  a  fine  gather- 
ing of  youths  and  maidens,  as  was  this  affair  for  which 
the  seventeen-year-old  Dorothy  was  prinking  before 
the  glass. 

She  had  given,  perhaps,  the  fortieth  pinch  and  pat  to 
the  little  tendril  curls  over  her  forehead,  when  her 
father's  voice  called  from  below, — 

"  Dorothy  !  Dorothy  !  "  She  caught  up  her  gay  silk 
fan,  tipped  splendidly  with  peacock  eyes,  flung  her  red 
merino  cloak,  with  its  caleche  hood,  over  her  arm,  and 
went  running  down  the  stairs,  her  little  heels  click- 
clacking  as  she  went. 

"Here  I  am,  father!  Has  Thomas  brought  the 
chaise  round  ? "  she  cried,  as  she  met  her  father  at  the 
door  of  the  sitting-roona. 

"  Oh,  there's  no  hurry.  I  only  wanted  to  see  my  fine 
bird  in  her  new  feathers,  and  I  thought  by  what  her 
mother  had  just  been  telling  me,  that  she  had  been 


B  Y  NORA  PE-RR  Y.  137 

preening  and  pruning  these  feathers  quite  long 
enough." 

Dorothy  blushed  beneath  the  half-amused,  half- 
satirical  glance  that  her  father  bestowed  upon  her. 
As  she  crossed  the  floor,  the  autumn  wind  that  united 
with  the  little  blaze  upon  the  hearth  to  make  a  draught, 
seized  upon  her  long  sash-ends  and  blew  them  out  like 
a  train. 

"  Ah,  she's  quite  a  bird  of  Paradise !  or,"  catching 
sight  of  the  peacock  tips,  "  perhaps  we  might  get 
nearer  to  the  truth  if  we  got  nearer  to  the  earth." 

Just  then,  on  the  box-bordered  garden  path  fronting 
the  window,  a  magnificent  specimen  of  a  peacock 
spread  its  splendid  court  train,  and  at  the  same  mo- 
ment uttered  the  harsh,  discordant  cry  for  which  it  is 
noted. 

Mr.  Merridew  gave  a  little  mocking  laugh.  "There, 
my  dear,  you  see  the  Prince — you  named  your  pet 
rightly — applauds  and  welcomes  you  as  one  of  its  kind. 
You  are  going  into  the  company  of  those  who  prefer 
just  such  princes,  with  their  shows  and  noise  ;  but  I 
hope  my  Dorothy  by  this  time  has  learned  to  know  the 
truth  and  the  right ;  to  know  that  kings  and  princes 
and  their  followers  are  not  always  as  fine  as  they  seem 
outside." 

Dorothy  knew  quite  well  what  her  father  meant. 
She  had  not  listened  to  the  earnest  conversations 
between  him  and  his  friends  from  time  to  time  without 
gathering  in  their  spirit,  and  becoming  herself  more  or 
less  influenced. 

Mr.  Merridew  was  an  ardent  believer  in  the  rights 
of  men,  and  the  justice  of  the  colonists'  protest  against 
the  crown's  renewed  taxation.  She  had  heard  the 
whole  discussed  again  and  again,  and  again  and  again 
had  been  thrilled  with  her  father's  eloquent,  im- 
passioned words,  as  he  had  laid  the  case  before  some 
wavering  neighbor.  She  knew  that  if  it  came  to  the 
point  of  sacrifice,  he  was  willing  to  give  his  fortune  and 
risk  his  life  for  his  principles. 

Only  a  week  ago,  when  this  invitation  had  come  for 
her  to  attend  this  fete  on  the  birthday  of  Mr.  Robert 
Jennifer's  eldest  daughter,  she  had  heard  a  conversa- 
tion between  her  father  and  mother  that  had  made  an 
ineffaceable  impression  upon  her  mind  ;  and  this  con- 


138  -DOROTHY. 

versation  was  now  brought  forward  again,  as  her  father 
turned  and  said  to  his  wife — 

"I  feel  like  half  a  traitor  to  my  beliefs,  Miriam, 
as  I  see  our  girl  decked  out  like  this,  and  on  her  way 
to  those  king-loving  Jennifers.  I  didn't  like  it  from 
the  first.  I  wish  I  had  not  given  my  consent,  for  at 
the  best  it  is  inconsistent  with  my  principles." 

"  If  Dorothy  were  a  son, — a  young  man, — it  would 
be  different ;  but  she  is  a  girl,  a  mere  child,  and  I 
think,  as  I  said  in  the  beginning,  that  it  would  be  very 
unfriendly  and  unneighborly  to  keep  her  from  this 
visit,"  responded  Mrs.  Merridew. 

"If  Dorothy  were  a  son,  it  would  be  different  in- 
deed. A  son,  I  hope,  would  be  pondering  things  of 
more  moment  than  this  gay  show  at  this  time  ;  and  in- 
stead of  making  a  display  of  these  fine  diamonds, 
would  be  storing  them  away  as  a  fund  to  be  used  at  the 
country's  need." 

"Richard,  I  think  you  lay  too  much  stress  upon 
these  trifles.  Dorothy  is  young, — a  child;  she  should 
be  allowed  to  have  a  little  girlish  enjoyment.  It 
chances,  from  our  condition  in  life,  that  her  acquaint- 
ance is  with  those  that  you  term  king-loving  folks 
largely,  like  the  Jennifers.  We  could  not  very  well 
call  in  the  people,  the  tradefolks,  and  tell  her  to  make 
friends  with  them  at  a  minute's  warning,"  cried  Mis- 
tress Merridew,  with  a  little  curl  of  her  lip.  She  could 
be  satirical  as  well  as  her  husband. 

"  Well,  well,  let  the  child  have  her  pleasure.  Per- 
haps I  am  too  severe  a  judge  in  these  matters.  But, 
Dorothy,  don't  let  these  king-loving  folk  make  you  dis- 
loyal to  the  cause  of  liberty  and  justice." 

"  Never  fear,  father,"  answered  Dorothy,  laughing 
brightly.  "No  king-loving  folks  could  make  me  dis- 
loyal." 

"  You  talk  as  if  she  were  going  into  a  company  of 
graybeards,  Richard  ! "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Merridew. 
"  As  if  these  children  would  talk  of  such  subjects  on 
such  a  merry  occasion  !  But  here  comes  Thomas  with 
the  chaise,  Dorothy.  Now  be  a  good  girl,  and  re- 
member when  you  take  your  cloak  off  to  let  the  serving- 
maid  see  to  it  that  your' sleeve-puffs  are  well  pulled  out 
and  your  hair  in  neat  order." 

The  sounds  of  the  harp  and  viol  proclaimed  that  the 


BY  NORA  PERRY.  139 

dancers  were  in  full  swing  when  Dorothy  alighted  at 
the  Jennifers'  door,  and  a  little  feeling  of  perturbation 
seized  her,  as  she  discovered  that,  after  all  her  ex- 
pedition in  dressing,  she  was  a  little  late.  But  a  cor- 
dial greeting  from  her  hostess,  and  a  pleasant  and  ad- 
miring nod  here  and  there  from  one  and  another  of 
the  guests,  soon  relieved  this  perturbation,  and  very 
soon  she  found  herself  tripping  the  light,  or  stately, 
measures  with  the  best  of  them. 

"Children,  indeed!"  she  thought  .as  she  looked 
about  her.  Here  was  young  Mr.  Carroll  Jennifer  and 
his  brother  Mark,  and  Mr.  Robertson,  and  the  Langton 
cousins,  quite  young  gentlemen,  with  their  lace  frills 
and  satin  waistcoats,  and  costly  chains  and  seals  hang- 
ing therefrom.  And  Cynthia  Jennifer,  with  her  pow- 
dered hair  and  fine  brocade  gown,  looked  like  a  stately 
young  woman  who  had  seen  the  world. 

In  those  days  dancing  was  not  the  only  amusement 
that  young  people  indulged  in  at  an  evening  party. 
Frolicsome  games  were  greatly  the  fashion,  and  after  a 
contra-dance,  little  Betty  Jennifer  proposed  that  they 
should  play  "  King  George's  troops."  This  was  rather 
childish,  and  there  was  a  little  prim  demurring  on  the 
part  of  stately  Miss  Cynthia,  but  the  stiff  starch  of 
grown-up  manners  had  begun  to  be  a  good  deal  shaken 
out  of  these  young  people  by  this  time,  with  the  pow- 
der in  their  hair,  and  there  was  such  a  merry  second- 
ing of  Betty's  proposition  that  Miss  Cynthia  relented., 
not  without  secret  satisfaction. 

Do  young  people  still  play  this  game,  I  wonder  ?  It 
is  a  pretty  game,  with  its  procession  that  passes  along 
under  the  arch  of  two  of  the  company's  clasped  and 
lifted  hands,_  these  two  singing, — 

"  Open  the  gates  as  high  as  the  sky, 
To  let  King  George's  troops  pass  by." 

There  is  a  forfeit  to  pay  by  those  whom  the  keepers 
of  the  gate  succeed  in  catching  with  a  sudden  down- 
ward swoop  of  the  hands  as  they  pass  under,  and  great 
amusement  ensues  when  some  captive  is  set  to  perform- 
ing some  droll  penance  or  ridiculous  task. 

Dorothy  had  played  the  game  hundreds  of  times, 
and  was  very  expert  in  evading  and  eluding  the  most 


I4<D  DOROTHY. 

wary  of  keepers.  Her  dexterity  was  soon  apparent  to 
the  young  people  about  her  at  the  Jennifers,  specially 
to  Carroll  Jennifer  and  Jervis  Langton,  who  were  the 
gate-keepers  on  this  cccasion.  They  felt  a  little 
chagrined  to  be  thus  repeatedly  beaten,  and  at  last,  put 
on  their  mettle,  determined  to  conquer  before  the 
game  was  over. 

At  length,  a  heedless  misstep  on  the  part  of  the  one 
who  preceded  Dorothy  brought  a  moment  of  delay,  of 
which  the  gate-keepers  took  advantage.  In  an  instant 
Dorothy  had  seen  the  misstep,  and  bending  low, 
sprang 'forward  with  renewed  celerity.  But  the  sharp- 
ened wits  of  the  gate-keepers  made  them  more  than  a 
match  for  her,  and  swoop !  there  she  was,  caught  and 
held  fast ! 

There  was  a  general  shout  of  victory,  then  a  general 
rushing  forward  to  see  this  hard-won  captive,  and  know 
her  forfeit-fate. 

"Ah  ha,  my  little  soldier!"  cried  Carroll  Jennifer, 
with  a  gay  laugh.  "You  see  that  when  King  George's 
officers  stand  at  the  gate,  they  stand  there  to  win.  All 
his  troops  must  obey  his  commanding  officers." 

Suddenly  across  Dorothy's  mind  flashed  the  con- 
versation she  had  heard  at  home,  and  her  father's 
words, — 

"  Don't  let  those  king-loving  folk  make  you  disloyal 
to  the  cause  of  liberty  and  justice."  And  she  wanted 
to  cry  out, — 

"  I'm  not  one  of  King  George's  loyal  troops  !  I'm  a 
rebel !  " 

But  a  feeling  of  shyness  came  over  her,  and  she 
thought,  "  How  foolish  for  me  to  say  a  thing  of  that 
kind  in  the  midst  of  a  play  like  this ! " 

Somebody  else,  however,  was  not  held  back  by  this 
shyness,  for  a  voice  cried, — it  was  a  girl's  voice,  that  of 
Judith  Myles,  Dorothy's  neighbor, — 

"Ah!  but  Mistress  Dorothy  has  been  taught  to  flout 
at  King  George  and  his  officers,  and  even  though  she 
be  one  of  his  soldiers,  I*  dare  say  she  is  in  secret  a 
little  rebel,  who  has  been  planning  and  plotting  to  es- 
cape you." 

Carroll  Jennifers  and  the  Langtons  had  but  just  re- 
turned from  a  long  visit  abroad,  and  were  not  very 
kjjowing  about  the  individual  loyalty  of  the  family 


BY  NORA  PERRY.  141 

friends  and  acquaintances.  They  only  felt  and  saw 
that  their  pretty  captive  was  blushing  with  a  troubled 
distress,  and  they  came  to  her  rescue,  Carroll  looking 
down  with  the  sweetest  of  kind  smiles  on  his  winning 
face,  and  exclaiming, — 

"  Mistress  Dorothy  couldn't  be  a  rebel  in  my  father's 
house." 

The  bright  color  fled  from  Dorothy's  cheeks  as 
quickly  as  it  had  come,  and  she  felt  for  the  moment 
like  a  little  traitor  for  being  where  she  was.  Then 
Jervis  Langton  took  up  Mr.  Carroll  Jennifer's  words, 
and  went  on  in  such  a  glowing  and  eloquent  fashion 
about  keeping  faith,  and  being  true  to  one's  old  home, 
and  the  king  being  father  of  his  subjects,  that  Dorothy 
was  quite  bewildered. 

She  had  never  heard  just  this  kind  of  young  glowing 
talk  on  the  other  side — the  king's  side.  The  only 
really  eloquent  voice  she  had  ever  listened  to,  was  that 
of  her  father,  and  he  was  on  the  people's  side.  As 
young  Langton  talked,  he  seemed  to  affect  all  those 
about  him.  It  was  like  a  spark  of  fire  that  suddenly 
set  things  into  a  blaze,  which  caught  here  and  there, 
and  drew  out  a  fine  fiery  sort  of  talk  that  had  a  roman- 
tic cavalierish  sound  to  his  young  listeners. 

The  whole  mental  atmosphere  was  entirely  new  to 
Dorothy.  She  was  made  to  feel  that  these  king-loving 
folk  had  a  high,  enthusiastic  sense  of  king  and 
country,  and  what  they  owed  to  both. 

In  the  midst  of  all  this  new  excitement,  the  pretty 
play  and  the  forfeit  had  well-nigh  been  forgotten. 
Carroll  Jennifer,  suddenly  glancing  at  Dorothy's  up- 
turned listening  face,  recalled  both  the  play  and  his 
character  and  duty  as  host,  and  breaking  in  upon  the 
talk,  said  smilingly, — 

"  But  the  forfeit,  Mistress  Dorothy,  let  us  see  to  that. 
Ah,  by  the  king's  realm,  I  have  it !  You  shall  repeat 
after  me  the  renunciation  of  all  rebellious  thoughts, 
and  swear  from  this  night  forth  to  be  loyal  to  the  king 
and  his  crown." 

Young  Jennifer,  as  I  have  said,  had  little  knowledge 
of  the  individual  differences  that  had  sprung  up  in  Bos- 
ton, and  had  no  idea  that  Judith  Myles'  words  hinted 
at  more  than  a  little  foolish,  girlish  bravado.  So  still 
smiling  down  upon  Dorothy,  he  began  lightly, — 


142  DOROTHY. 

"  Now  repeat  after  me, — '  I  renounce  from  this  night 
forth  all  seditious  and  rebellious  thoughts  against  his 
most  gracious  majesty  King  George  the  Third,  and 
swear  to  be  his  most  faithful  subject ' — but  I  go  too  fast 
— I  will  begin  again — now,  '  I  renounce  from  this 
night  forth,'  " — he  paused,  glancing  at  Dorothy  with 
smiling  invitation. 

Dorothy  heard  again  her  father,  saying  "Don't  let 
these  king-loving  folk  make  you  disloyal  to  the  cause 
of  liberty  and  justice." 

"  Come,  Dorothy,  here  is  a  chance  for  you  to  for- 
swear the  company  of  the  common  herd — the  tinkers 
and  trades-folk,  and  take  your  place  where  you  be- 
long," broke  in  Judirh  Myles. 

At  these  words,  "  tinkers  and  trades-folks,"  Dorothy 
recalled  what  her  father  had  said  one  day  of  these 
tinkers  and  trades-folk,  how  high-minded  and  self- 
sacrificing  and  intelligent  they  were,  and  the  difficulty 
with  which  they  had  met  this  redoubled  taxation,  and 
fed  and  clothed  their  families.  Were  these  rough  or 
boorish  or  grasping  men? 

The  wax  lights  of  the  great  cancllelabra  sent  a  thou- 
sand shimmering  rays  upon  the  satin  waistcoats  and 
glittering  knee-buckles  and  jewelled  seals  before  her. 

"  Come,  Dorothy,  Master  Jennifer  is  waiting,"  said 
Judith. 

"  Come,  Mistress  Dorothy,"  Master  Jennifer  began 
again,  "I  renounce  from  this  night  forth." 

She  looked  up  into  the  kind,  admiring  eyes  that 
were  bent  upon  her,  and  around,  the  splendid  room 
at  the  faces  that  were  now  full  of  pleasant  looks  for 
her,  but  she  must  not  delay  longer ;  she  must  take 
her  place  where  she  belonged,  as  Judith  had  said. 
With  her  color  deepening,  her  voice  faltering,  she  re- 
peated— "  I  renounce  from  this  night  forth" 

"All  seditious  and  rebellious," 


"All  seditious  and  rebellious  thoughts,"- 


"  Against  his  most  gracious  majesty  King  George  the 
Third," 

"  Against Dorothy  paused,  a  mist  passed  before 

her  eyes,  a  shudder  of  horror  thrilled  her,  then  with  a 
sudden  uplifting  of  her  head,  a  sudden  and  new  em- 
phasis to  her  voice,  she  cried, — 

"Against,    not   his    most    gracious    majesty    King 


BY  NORA  PERRY.  143 

George  the  Third,  but  his  sorely  tried  and  oppressed 
people  who  are  weighed  down  with  the  burden  of  his 
unjust  taxes." 

"  Dorothy,  Dorothy,  how  dare  you  under  Master  Jen- 
nifer's loyal  roof !  Are  you  not  ashamed  ?  "  cried  out 
Judith. 

Carroll  Jennifer  looked  from  one  to  another  with  an 
awakening  sense  of  the  true  situation. 

"Mistress  Dorothy,"  he  presently  exclaimed,  "have 
these  rebels  and  malcontents  frightened  you  into  this  ?  " 

"  No — no,  I  have  only  been  frightened  by  my  own 
poor  spirit  just  now,  into  disloyalty  to  the  cause  of  lib- 
erty and  justice,"  she  replied. 

"There  is  but  one  cause,  and  that  is  the  crown's, 
and  but  one  disloyalty,  and  that  is  to  the  king,"  cried 
Jervis  Langton. 

The  clamor  of  voices  arose  on  every  hand.  It  was  a 
storm  of  Tory  talk ;  vehement  protest  and  assertion 
and  declaration.  In  the  centre  of  it  stood  Dorothy. 
She  had  ceased  turning  red  and  white.  With  her  head 
slightly  bent,  her  arms  drooping,  and  her  hands  clasped 
together,  she  looked  like  a  wind-blown  lily,  bruised  and 
beaten,  but  not  overthrown. 

Listening  to  the  storm  of  words,  she  no  more  felt 
ashamed  of  the  cause  she  had  thus  publicly  espoused ; 
she  was  no  more  bewildered  and  tempted  by  the  grace 
and  splendor  of  these  king-loving  folk.  But  she  did 
not  attempt  to  speak  again,  to  answer  these  vehement 
assertions  or  offer  protest  for  protest.  She  had  said 
her  say,  she  had  made  some  atonement,  she  felt,  for 
her  first  traitorous  feeling  of  shame,  and  now  she  had 
nothing  to  do  but  wait  for  the  storm  to  subside. 

All  at  once  Carroll  Jennifer  seemed  to  realize  Doro- 
thy's defenceless  position.  He  could  not  defend  her 
avowed  principles,  but  she  was  his  guest,  and  he  was  a 
gentleman ;  so  he  put  up  his  hand  with  a  "  Come, 
come,  we  have  had  enough  of  this  discussion  to-night." 

A  nod  to  the  musicians,  and  the  strains  of  the  harp 
and  violin  broke  in  upon  the  clamor  of  tongues. 

At  another  signal,  a  door  was  flung  open,  and 
beyond,  could  be  seen  a  bountifully  spread  supper- 
table,  gay  with  lights,  and  the  shine  of  silver  and 
glass.  Young  Mr.  Jennifer  bowed  low,  as  was  the 
fashion  of  the  time,  before  Dorothy.  He  was  not  go- 


144  DOROTHY. 

ing  to  treat  his  guest  with  anything  but  his  finest  man- 
ners, so  bowing,  he  said  with  airy  grace, — 

"  Will  my  enemy  consent  to  let  a  wicked  Tory  serve 
her  ?  " 

Dorothy  was  not  so  grown  up  out  of  her  childhood 
as  she  looked,  and  the  thought  that  she  must  sit  at  ta- 
ble with  those  whose  clamor  of  speech  had  just  assailed 
her,  was  unbearable,  and  she  shrank  back  with  so  dis- 
mayed a  face  that  both  Carroll  and  his  sister  Cynthia 
felt  touched  with  pity. 

"We  have  been  making  too  much  of  this,"  said  Cyn- 
thia in  an  undertone  to  her  brother.  "  She's  a  child, 
after  all,  who  has  been  showing  off  a  little,  and  does 
not  know  the  full  meaning  of  what  she  has  said.  You 
see  she  is  sorry  enough  for  it  now." 

Low  as  this  was  spoken,  it  reached  Dorothy's  ears. 

Perhaps  if  she  had  been  older,  she  would  have  been 
content  to  let  it  pass,  satisfied  that  she  had  defined  her 
position  sufficiently,  but  her  sensitive  conscience,  still 
stung  her  for  her  momentary  wavering,  and  her  father's 
words  haunted  her. 

She  must  be  true  to  the  very  last,  or  her  truth  was 
worth  nothing,  she  reasoned,  and  lifting  up  her  head, 
began  to  speak  again.  Oh,  how  hard  it  was,  how  much 
harder  than  at  first,  before  she  knew  how  sharp 
tongues  that  had  so  late  been  friendly,  could  be. 

"  No,  no,"  she  cried,  clearly  and  distinctly — for  they 
must  all  hear — "  I  did  not  say  what  I  did  to  show  off. 
I  spoke  because  I  wanted  to  be  true  and  honest.  I 
was  ashamed  at  first  of — of  my  friends — of  our  cause — 
I  was  afraid  to  speak  at  first — and  then,  after,  I  was 
ashamed  of  that — of  my  cowardice.  Oh  !  I  know  what 
I  say,  I  know  what  I  say,  you  must  not  take  me  for 
what  I  am  not ;  I  am  a  little  rebel  to  the  king's  cause, 
I  believe  in  the  people's  rights,  and  not  in  the  crown's, 
and  I  ought  not  to  have  come  here,  I  ought  not  to 
have  come." 

The  clear  voice  faltered  and  fell,  and  the  next  mo- 
ment poor  Dorothy  felt  that  she  had  disgraced  herself 
forever  before  them  all,  as  she  burst  into  a  flood  of  un- 
controllable tears. 

Then  it  was  that  a  new  voice  was  heard,  a  deeper, 
older  voice.  It  was  low-toned,  yet  very  distinct,  and 


BY  NORA  PERRY.  145 

there  was  an  odd  thrill,  a  sort  of  quiver  of  emotion  to 
it,  as  it  said, — 

"  Come,  Mistress  Dorothy,  rebel  or  no  rebel,  you 
have  shown  a  courage  that  we  may  all  doff  our  hats  to. 
I  only  hope  that  every  king's  soldier  may  prove  his 
truth  and  loyalty  to  the  king's  cause  as  bravely,  if  he 
should  be  beset  by  temptation.  And  you,  my  fine 
young  Tories,"  turning  to  the  young  men  of  the  com- 
pany, "  I  hope  that  you  will  always  be  able  to  give 
your  meed  of  admiration  and  respect  to  such  kind  of 
courage,  wherever  you  find  it.  Come,  Mistress  Doro- 
thy, let  us  go  and  be  served  with  some  of  these 
dainties  that  are  prepared  for  us ;  and  we  will  see  if  a 
Tory  syllabub  will  not  take  away  the  taste  of  those 
tears,"  smilingly  benignly  down  upon  her. 

"You  are  a  little  rebel  and  mine  enemy,  for  I  am 
one  of  the  king's  staunchest  defenders  and  hope  to 
conquer  all  rebels,  but  I  am  proud  to  have  such  a  rebel 
for  my  guest  to-night,  I  assure  you ;  "  and  Mr.  Jennifer 
bent  down  his  powdered  head  in  a  fine  obeisance  as  he 
offered  Dorothy  his  arm. 


THE  TRIAL  OF  BERYL, 


BY 


AUGUSTA  EVANS  WILSON. 


AUGUSTA  EVANS  WILSON. 


THE  South  has  furnished  but  few  novelists  among 
women,  and  when  Miss  Augusta  Evans  wrote  her  first 
story,  "  Beulah,"  she  had  few  rivals  in  a  field  which  has 
since  been  entered  by  a  number  of  clever  story 
writers. 

Miss  Evans  is  a  native  of  Columbus,  Georgia,  and 
her  first  book,  "  Inez,  a  Tale  of  the  Alamo,"  was  written 
when  she  was  still  a  young  lady.  It  was  published  by 
the  Harpers,  but  met  with  indifferent  success.  In 
1859  her  second  book,  "  Beulah,"  was  issued,  and  it  be- 
came at  once  popular  and  continues  so.  It  was  selling 
well  when  the  war  broke  out  and  which  found  Miss 
Evans  at  her  home  in  Georgia.  Cut  off  from  the 
world  of  publishers,  and  intensely  concerned  for  the 
triumph  of  the  cause  of  secession,  she  wrote  nothing 
more  until  several  years  later,  when  she  published  her 
third  story  "  Macaria."  She  sent  a  copy  of  her  book 
with  a  letter  to  her  former  publisher  by  a  blockade-run- 
ner, which  carried  it  safely  to  Havana,  from  whence  it 
was  mailed  to  New  York.  The  book  was  printed  on 
coarse  brown  paper,  the  copyright  entered  according  to 
the  Confederate  States  of  America,  and  dedicated  to  the 
brave  soldiers  of  the  Southern  Army."  It  had  been 
printed  in  South  Carolina,  and  was  published  by  a 
bookseller  in  Richmond.  In  a  letter  written  subse- 
quently to  her  publisher  she  says:  "The  book  was 
dedicated  to  our  brave  Southern  Army,  and  was  a  great 
favorite  in  camp  and  hospital ;  and  my  very  heart  beat 
in  its  pages,  coarse  and  brown  though  the  dear  old 
Confederate  paper  was.  Some  portions  of  it  were 
scribbled  in  pencil,  while  sitting  up  with  the  sick  sol- 
diers in  the  hospital  attached  to 'Camp  Beulah  '  near 
Mobile.  '  Macaria  '  was  seized  and  destroyed  by  a 
Federal  officer  in  Kentucky,  who  burned  all  the 


152  AUGUSTA  EVANS  WILSON. 

copies — Confederate  edition — which  crossed  from 
rebeldom." 

A  Northern  publisher  who  had  obtained  a  copy 
through  the  lines,  published  it  and  at  first  declared 
that  he  would  pay  no  copyright  to  the  author  because 
she  was  an  arch  rebel.  Messrs.  J.  B.  Lippincott  and 
J.  C.  Derby,  two  publishers  who  were  interested  in 
bringing  out  an  edition  with  the  author's  consent,  ex- 
postulated with  the  self-elected  publisher,  and  finally  a 
contract  was  secured  whereby  he  agreed  to  pay  a  roy- 
alty on  all  copies  sold. 

After  the  war  closed  Miss  Evans  travelled  to  New 
York  with  the  copy  of  "  St.  Elmo,"  which  was  speedily 
published  and  met  with  great  success.  Towns,  hotels, 
steamboats  and  plantations  were  named  after  it,  and 
the  author  was  recompensed  with  large  financial  re- 
turns. Her  later  works,  "  Vashti  "  ;  "  Infelice  "  ;  and 
"At  the  Mercy  of  Tiberius"  have  had  phenomenal 
success.  Miss  Evans,  in  1868,  married  Mr.  Wilson, 
a  distinguished  citizen  of  Alabama,  and  since  that 
time  has  resided  near  Mobile  in  a  home  whose  sur- 
roundings are  suggestive  of  poetry  and  romance.  It 
is  situated  on  one  of  the  many  fine  shell  roads  which 
radiate  from  that  city,  and  stands  in  a  lawn  of  majes- 
tic oaks  and  fragrant  magnolia  trees.  Long,  gray 
Southern,  moss  hang  from  the  wide  limbs  of  the 
branches  of  trees,  and  touch  the  gorgeous  flowers 
which  bloom  all  the  year  round.  Mocking  birds  sing 
in  the  leafy  woods  and  the  rarest  tropical  plants  adorn 
the  broad  piazzas.  Mrs.  Wilson  by  her  marriage  and 
through  the  publication  of  her  six  novels  has  come  into 
the  possession  of  large  wealth,  and  she  devotes  much 
time  to  the  beautifying  of  her  beloved  home. 

Mrs.  Wilson  has  never  written  short  stories  and  her 
pen  work  is  performed  in  the  most  deliberate  and 
painstaking  manner.  She  writes  for  love  of  her  work, 
and  is  happily  so  situated  that  she  is  not  impelled  by 
necessity  to  produce  stories  by  contract.  She  is  a 
woman  greatly  beloved  by  the  people  of  the  South,  who 
are  most  appreciative  of  her  genius,  and  her  literary 
reputation  is  a  national  one.  Gentle,  earnest  and 
deeply  religious,  Mrs.  Wilson's  manner  has  a  tinge  of 
sadness,  at  variance  with  her  external  life,  which  is  ex- 
ceptionally happy.  She  is  likewise  very  domestic,  de- 


AUGUSTA   EVANS  WILSON.  153 

voted  to  her  duties  as  a  home-maker,  and  as  hospita- 
ble as  her  own  and  her  husband's  wealth  permit.  She 
is  not  widely  known  to  literary  circles  because  she  has 
never  lived  near  literary  centres,  but  she  is  one  of  the 
most  interesting  and  accomplished  of  American  writers, 
and  has  that  which  is  a  rare  possession — a  classical 
education  broadened  by  constant  application.  Sensi- 
tive and  retiring  she  is  genuinely  appreciative  of  the 
good-will  of  her  fellow  beings,  and  in  a  recent  letter 
she  says  : — "  I  hold  peculiarly  dear  the  confidence  and 
esteem  of  my  own  sex ;  and  I  deem  it  a  nobler  privi- 
lege to  possess  the  affection  of  my  countrywomen  than 
to  assist  my  countrymen  in  making  national  laws." 

Mrs.  Wilson  is  a  typical  Southerner  in  many 
respects,  but  her  mentality  and  ability  for  hard  and 
sustained  study,  and  her  creative  faculty  are  natural 
gifts  and  are  common  to  genius  wherever  found.  Her 
personality  is  most  lovable  and  winsome. 


THE  TRIAL  OF  BERYL 


STANDING  before  Ldon  Gdrome's  tragic  picture,  and 
listening  to  the  sepulchral  echo  that  floats  down  the 
arcade  of  centuries,  "  Ave  Imperator,  morituri  te  sain- 
tant"  nineteenth  century  womanhood  frowns,  and  de- 
plores the  brutal  depravity  which  alone  explains  the 
presence  of  that  white-veiled  vestal  band,  whose  snowy 
arms  are  thrust  in  signal  over  the  parapet  of  the  bloody 
arena ;  yet  fair  daughters  of  the  latest  civilization  show 
unblushing  flower  faces  among  the  heaving  mass  of 
the  "  great  unwashed  "  who  crowd  our  court-rooms — 
and  listen  to  revolting  details  more  repugnant  to  gen- 
uine modesty,  than  the  mangled  remains  in  the  Colos- 
seum. The  rosy  thumbs  of  Roman  vestals  were  potent 
ballots  in  the  Eternal  City,  and  possibly  were  thrown 
only  in  the  scale  of  mercy ;  but  having  no  voice  in  ver- 
dicts, to  what  conservative  motive  may  be  ascribed  the 
presence  of  women  at  criminal  trials?  Are  the  chil- 
dren of  Culture,  the  heiresses  of  "  all  the  ages  ",  really 
more  refined  than  the  proud  old  dames  of  the  era  of 
Spartacus  ? 

Is  the  spectacle  of  mere  physical  torture,  in  gladia- 
torial combats,  or  in  the  bloody  precincts  of  plaza  de 
toros,  as  grossly  demoralizing  as  the  loathsome  minutiae 
of  heinous  crimes  upon  which  legal  orators  dilate ;  and 
which  Argus  reporters,  with  magnifying  lenses  at  every 
eye,  reproduce  for  countless  newspapers,  that  serve  as 
wings  for  transporting  moral  dynamite  to  hearthstones 
and  nurseries  all  over  our  land  ?  Is  there  a  distinction, 
without  a  difference,  between  police  gazettes  and  the 
journalistic  press? 

If  extremes  meet,  and  the  march  of  human  progress 
be  along  no  asymtotic  line,  is  the  day  very  distant 
when  we  shall  welcome  the  Renaissance  of  that  wisdom 
which  two  thousand  years  ago  held  its  august  tribunal 
in  the  solemn  hours  of  night,  when  darkness  hid  from 
155 


I  56  THE  TRIAL  OF  BERYL. 

the  Judges  everything  save  well-authenticated  facts  ? 
The  supreme  aim  of  civil  and  criminal  law  being  the 
conservation  of  national  and  individual  purity,  to  what 
shall  we  attribute  the  paradox  presented  in  its  admin- 
istration, whereby  its  temples  become  lairs  of  libel, 
their  moral  atmosphere  defiled  by  the  monstrous  vivi- 
section of  parental  character  by  children,  the  slaughter 
of  family  reputation,  the  exhaustive  analysis  of  every 
species  of  sin  forbidden  by  the  Decalogue,  and  floods 
of  vulgar  vituperation  dreadful  as  the  Apocalyptic 
vials  ?  Can  this  generation 

"  — in  the  foremost  files  of  time" — 

afford  to  believe  that  a  grim  significance  lurks  in  the 
desuetude  of  typical  judicial  ermine  ? 

Traditions  of  ante  bdlum  custom  proclaimed  that 
"  good  society  "  in  the  town  of  X ,  formerly  consid- 
ered the  precincts  of  courts  as  unfit  for  ladies  as  the 
fetid  air  of  morgues,  or  the  surgical  instruments  on  dis- 
secting tables ;  but  the  vanguard  of  cosmopolitan  free- 
dom and  progress  had  pitched  tents  in  the  old-fash- 
ioned place,  and  recruited  rapidly  from  the  ranks  of 
the  invaded  ;  hence  it  came  to  pass,  that  on  the  second 
day  of  the  murder  trial,  when  the  preliminaries  of  jury 
empanelling  had  been  completed,  and  all  were  ready 
to  launch  the  case,  X announced  its  social  emanci- 
pation from  ancient  canons  of  decorum,  by  the  un- 
wonted spectacle  of  benches  crowded  with  "  ladies  ", 
whose  silken  garments  were  crushed  against  the 
coarser  fabrics  of  proletariat.  Despite  the  piercing 
cold  of  a  morning  late  in  February,  the  mass  of  human 
furnaces  had  raised  the  temperature  to  a  degree  that 
encouraged  the  fluttering  of  fans,  and  necessitated  the 
order  that  no  additional  spectators  should  be  admitted. 

Viewed  through  the  leaden  haze  of  fearful  anticipa- 
tion, the  horror  of  the  impending  trial  had  seemed  un- 
endurable to  the  proud  and  sensitive  girl,  whom  the 
Sheriff  placed  on  a  seat  fronting  the  sea  of  curious 
faces,  the  battery  of  scrutinizing  eyes  turned  on  her 
from  the  jury-box.  Four  months  of  dread  had  un- 
nerved her,  yet  now  when  the  cruel  actuality  seized  her 
in  its  iron  grasp,  that  superb  strength  which  the  inevit- 
able lends  to  conscious  innocence,  so  steeled  and  for- 


BY  A UGUSTA  E VANS  WILSON.  \  5 7 

lifted  her,  that  she  felt  lifted  to  some  lonely  height, 
where  numbness  eased  her  aching  wounds. 

Pallid  and  motionless,  she  sat  like  a  statue,  save  for 
the  slow  strokes  of  her  right  hand  upon  the  red  gold 
of  her  mother's  ring  ;  and  the  sound  of  a  man's  voice 
reading  a  formula,  seemed  to  echo  from  an  immeasur- 
able distance.  She  had  consented  to,  had  deliberately 
accepted  the  worst  possible  fate,  and  realized  the  iso- 
lation of  her  lot;  but  for  one  thing  she  was  not  pre- 
pared, and  its  unexpectedness  threatened  to  shiver 
her  calmness.  Two  women  made  their  way  toward 
her  :  Dyce  and  Sister  Serena.  The  former  sat  down 
in  the  rear  of  the  prisoner,  the  latter  stood  for  a  few 
seconds,  and  her  thin  delicate  hand  fell  upon  the  girl's 
shoulder.  At  sight  of  the  sweet,  placid  countenance 
below  the  floating  white  muslin  veil,  Beryl's  lips 
quivered  into  a  sad  smile  ;  and  as  they  shook  hands 
she  whispered  : 

"  I  believe  even  the  gallows  will  not  frighten  you  two 
from  my  side." 

Sister  Serena  seated  herself  as  close  as  possible, 
drew  from  her  pocket  a  gray  woollen  stocking,  and 
began  to  knit.  For  an  instant  Beryl's  eyes  closed,  to 
shut  in  the  sudden  gush  of  grateful  tears  ;  when  she 
opened  them,  Mr.  Churchill  had  risen  : 

"  May  it  please  the  Court,  Gentlemen  of  the  Jury  : 
If  fidelity  to  duty  involved  no  sacrifice  of  personal  feel- 
ing, should  we  make  it  the  touchstone  of  human  char- 
acter, value  it  as  the  most  precious  jewel  in  the  crown 
of  human  virtues?  I  were  less  than  a  man,  immeasur- 
ably less  than  a  gentleman,  were  I  capable  of  address- 
ing you  to-day,  in  obedience  to  the  behests  of  justice, 
and  in  fulfilment  of  the  stern  requirements  of  my 
official  position,  without  emotions  of  profound  regret, 
that  implacable  Duty,  to  whom  I  have  sworn  alleg- 
iance, forces  me  to  hush  the  pleading  whispers  of  my 
pitying  heart,  to  smother  the  tender  instincts  of 
human  sympathy,  and  to  listen  only  to  the  solemn 
mandate  of  those  laws,  which  alone  can  secure  to  our 
race  the  enjoyment  of  life,  liberty  and  property.  An 
extended  professional  career  has  hitherto  furnished  me 
no  parallel  for  the  peculiarly  painful  exigencies  of  this 
occasion  ;  and  an  awful  responsibility  scourges  me  with 
scorpion  lash  to  a  most  unwelcome  task.  When  man 


158  THE  TRIAL  OF  BERYL. 

crosses  swords  with  man  on  any  arena,  innate  pride 
nerves  his  arm  and  kindles  enthusiasm,  but  alas,  for 
the  man  !  be  he  worthy  die  name,  who  draws  his  blade 
and  sees  before  him  a  young,  helpless,  beautiful 
woman,  disarmed.  Were  it  not  a  bailable  offence  in 
the  court  of  honor,  if  his  arm  fell  palsied  ?  Each  of 
you  who  has  a  mother,  a  wife,  a  lily  browed  daughter, 
put  yourself  in  my  place,  lend  me  your  sympathy;  and 
at  least  applaud  the  loyalty  that  strangles  all  individ- 
uality, and  renders  me  bound  thrall  of  official  duty. 
Counsel  for  the  defence  has  been  repeatedly  offered, 
nay,  pressed  upon  the  prisoner,  but  as  often  persist- 
ently rejected ;  hence  the  almost  paralyzing  repug- 
nance with  which  I  approach  my  theme. 

"  The  Grand  Jury  of  the  county,  at  its  last   sitting, 
returned  to  this  court  a  bill  of  indictment,  charging  the 
prisoner   at   the    bar   with   the    wilful,  deliberate   and 
premeditated  murder  of   Robert  Luke   Darrington,  by 
striking  him  with  a  brass  andiron.     To  this  indictment 
she  has  pleaded  '  Not  Guilty,'  and  stands  before  her 
God  and  this  community  for  trial.     Gentlemen  of  the 
jury,  you  represent  this  commonwealth,  jealous  of  the 
inviolability  of  its  laws,  and  by  virtue  of  your  oaths, 
you  are  solemnly  pledged  to  decide  upon  her  guilt  or 
innocence,  in  strict  accordance  with  the  evidence  that 
may  be  laid  before  you.     In  fulfilling  this  sacred  duty, 
you  will,  I  feel  assured,  be  governed  exclusively  by  a 
stern  regard  to  the  demands  of  public  justice.      While 
it  taxes  our  reluctant  credulity  to  believe  that  a  crime 
so  hideous  could  have  been  commited  by  a  woman's 
hand,  could  have  been  prepetrated   without  provoca- 
cation  within  the  borders  of  our  peaceful  community, 
nevertheless,  the   evidence    we    shall  adduce  must  in- 
evitably force  you  to  the  melancholy  conclusion  that  the 
prisoner  at  the  bar  is  guilty  of  the  offence,  with  which  she 
stands  charged.     The  indictment  which  you  are  about 
to  try,  charges  Beryl  Brentano  with  the  murder. 

"  In  outlining  the  evidence  which  will  be  presented 
in  support  of  this  indictment,  I  earnestly  desire  that 
you  will  give  me  your  dispassionate  and  undivided  at- 
tention ;  and  I  call  God  to  witness,  that  disclaiming 
personal  animosity  and  undue  zeal  for  vengeance,  I  am 
sorrowfully  indicating  as  an  officer  of  the  law,  a  path 
of  inquiry,  that  must  lead  you  to  that  goal  where,  be- 


BY  AUGUSTA  E VANS  WILSON.  I  5 9 

fore  the  altar  of  Truth,  Justice  swings  her  divine  scales, 
and  bids  Nemesis  unsheathe  her  sword. 

"  On  the  afternoon  of  October  the  twenty-sixth,  about 
three  o'clock,  a  stranger  arrived  in  X and  in- 
quired of  the  station  agent  what  road  would  carry  her 
to  '  Elm  Bluff,'  the  home  of  General  Darrington  ;  as- 
suring him  she  would  return  in  time  to  take  the  north- 
bound train  at  7.15,  as  urgent  business  necessitated 
her  return.  Demanding  an  interview  with  General  Dar- 
rington, she  was  admitted,  incognito,  and  proclaimed 
herself  his  granddaughter,  sent  hither  by  a  sick  mother, 
to  procure  a  certain  sum  of  money  required  for  speci- 
fied purposes.  That  the  interview  was  stormy,  was 
characterized  by  fierce  invective  on  her  part,  and  by 
bitter  denunciation  and  recrimination  on  his,  is  too 
well  established  to  admit  of  question  ;  and  they  parted 
implacable  foes,  as  is  attested  by  the  fact  that  he  drove 
her  from  his  room  through  a  rear  and  unfrequented 
door,  opening  into  a  flower  garden,  whence  she 
wandered  over  the  grounds  until  she  found  the  gate. 
The  vital  import  of  this  interview  lies  in  the  great 
stress  General  Darrington  placed  upon  the  statement  he 
iterated  and  reiterated  that  he  had  disinherited  his 
daughter,  and  drawn  up  a  will  bequeathing  his  entire 
estate  to  his  step-son  Prince. 

"  Miss    Brentano    did    not    leave   X at   7.15, 

though  she  had  ample  time  to  do  so,  after  quitting 
'  Elm  Bluff.'  She  loitered  about  the  station  house 
until  nearly  half- past  eight,  then  disappeared.  At  10 
P.M.  she  was  seen  and  identified  by  a  person  who  had 
met  her  at  '  Elm  Bluff',  crouching  behind  a  ttee  near 
the  road  that  led  to  that  ill-fated  house,  and  when 
questioned  regarding  her  presence  there,  gave  unsatis- 
factory answers.  At  half-past  two  o'clock  she  was 
next  seen  hastening  toward  the  station  office,  along  the 
line  of  the  railroad,  from  the  direction  of  the  water 
tank,  which  is  situated  nearly  a  mile  north  of  town. 
Meanwhile  an  unusually  severe  storm  had  been  fol- 
lowed by  a  drenching  rain,  and  the  stranger's  garments 
were  wet,  when,  after  a  confused  and  contradictory 
account  of  her  movements,  she  boarded  the  3.05  train 
bound  north. 

"  During    that   night,   certainly    after  ten    o'clock, 
General  Darrington  was  murdered.      His    vault    was 


l6o  THE  TRIAL  OF  BERYL. 

forced  open,  money  was  stolen,  and  most  significant 
of  all,  the  will  was  abstracted.  Criminal  jurisprudence 
holds  that  the  absence  of  motive  renders  nugatory 
much  weighty  testimony.  In  this  melancholy  cause, 
could  a  more  powerful  motive  be  imagined  than  that 
which  goaded  the  prisoner  to  dip  her  fair  hands  in  her 
grandfather's  blood,  in  order  to  possess  and  destroy 
that  will  which  stood  as  an  everlasting  barrier  between 
her  and  the  estate  she  coveted  ? 

"  Crimes  are  referrible  to  two  potent  passions  of  the 
human  soul ;  malice,  engendering  thirst  for  revenge,  and 
the  insatiable  lust  of  money.  If  that  old  man  had  died 
a  natural  death,  leaving  the  will  he  had  signed,  his 
property  would  have  belonged  to  the  adopted  son,  to 
whom  he  bequeathed  it,  and  Mrs.  Brentano  and  her 
daughter  would  have  remained  paupers.  Cut  off  by 
assassination,  and  with  no  record  of  his  last  wishes  in 
existence,  the  beloved  son  is  bereft  of  his  legacy,  and 
Beryl  Brentano  and  her  mother  inherit  the  bloodbought 
riches  they  covet.  When  arrested,  gold  coins  and 
jewels  identified  as  those  formerly  deposited  in  General 
Darrington's  vault,  were  found  in  possession  of  the 
prisoner  ;  and  as  if  every  emissary  of  fate  were  armed 
with  warrants  for  her  detection,  a  handkerchief  bearing 
her  initials,  and  saturated  with  the  chloroform  which  she 
had  administered  to  her  victim,  was  taken  from  the 
pillow,  where  his  honored  gray  head  rested,  when  he 
slept  his  last  sleep  on  earth.  Further  analysis  would 
insult  your  intelligence,  and  having  very  briefly  laid  be- 
fore you  the  intended  line  of  testimony,  I  believe  I  have 
assigned  a  motive  for  this  monstrous  crime,  which  must 
precipitate  the  vengeance  of  the  law,  in  a  degree 
commensurate  with  its  enormity.  Time,  opportunity, 
moti  ve,  when  in  full  accord,  constitute  a  fatal  triad, 
and  the  suspicious  and  unexplainable  conduct  of  the 
prisoner  in  various  respects,  furnishes,  in  connection 
with  other  circumstances  of  this  case,  the  strongest 
presumptive  evidence  of  her  guilt.  These  circum- 
stances, far  beyond  the  realm  of  human  volition, 
smelted  and  shaped  in  the  rolling  mills  of  destiny,  form 
the  tramway  along  which  already  the  car  of  doom  thun- 
ders; and  when  they  shall  have  been  fully  proved  to 
you,  by  unassailable  testimony,  no  alternative  remains 
but  the  verdict  of  guilty.  Mournful  as  is  the  duty,  and 


BY  AUGUSTA  EVANS  WILSON.  l6l 

awfully  solemn  the  necessity  that  leaves  the  issue  of  life 
and  death  in  your  hands,  remember,  gentlemen,  Cur- 
ran's  immortal  words:  'A  juror's  oath  is  the  adaman- 
tine chain  that  binds  the  integrity  of  man  to  the  throne 
of  eternal  justice.'  " 

No  trace  of  emotion  was  visible  on  the  prisoner's 
face,  except  at  the  harsh  mention  of  her  mother's 
name ;  when  a  shudder  was  perceptible,  as  in  one 
where  dentist's  steel  pierces  a  sensitive  nerve.  In 
order  to  avoid  the  hundreds  of  eyes  that  stabbed  her 
like  merciless  probes,  her  own  had  been  raised  and 
fixed  upon~a  portion  of  the  cornice  in  the  room  where  a 
family  of  spiders  held  busy  camp ;  but  a  fascination 
long  resisted,  finally  drew  their  gaze  down  to  a  seat  near 
the  bar,  and  she  encountered  the  steady,  sorrowful 
regard  of  Mr.  Dunbar. 

Two  months  had  elapsed  since  the  Christmas  morn- 
ing on  which  she  had  rejected  his  floral  offering,  and 
during  that  weary  season  of  waiting,  she  had  refused  to 
see  any  visitors  except  Dyce  and  Sister  Serena ;  reso- 
lutely denying  admittance  to  Miss  Gordon.  She  knew 
that  he  had  been  absent,  had  searched  for  some  testi- 
mony in  New  York,  and  now  meeting  his  eyes,  she  saw 
a  sudden  change  in  their  expression — a  sparkle,  a  smile 
of  encouragement,  a  declaration  of  success.  He 
fancied  he  understood  the  shadow  of  dread  that  drifted 
over  her  face  :  and  she  realized  at  that  instant,  that  of 
all  foes,  she  had  most  to  apprehend  from  the  man  who 
she  knew  loved  her  with  an  unreasoning  and  ineradi- 
cable fervor.  How  much  had  he  discovered?  She 
could  defy  the  district  solicitor,  the  judge,  the  jury ; 
but  only  one  method  of  silencing  the  battery  that  was 
ambushed  in  those  gleaming  blue  eyes  presented  itself. 
To  extinguish  his  jealousy  by  removing  the  figment  of 
a  rival,  might  rob  him  of  the  motive  that  explained  his 
presistent  pursuit  of  the  clue  she  had  concealed  ;  but 
it  would  simultaneously  demolish,  also,  the  barrier  that 
stretched  between  Miss  Gordon's  happy  heart  and  the 
bitter  waves  of  a  cruel  disappointment.  If  assured 
that  her  own  affection  was  unpledged,  would  the  bare 
form  and  ceremonial  of  honor  bind  his  allegiance  to 
his  betrothed  ?  Absorbed  in  these  reflections,  the  pris- 
oner became  temporarily  oblivious  of  the  proceedings; 
and  it  was  not  until  Sister  Serena. touched  her  arm,  that 


1 62  THE  TRIAL  OF  BERYL. 

she  saw  the  vast  throng  was  watching  her,  waiting  for 
some  reply.  The  Judge  repeated  his  question  : 

"  Is  it  the  desire  of  the  prisoner  to  answer  the  presen- 
tation of  the  prosecution  ?  Having  refused  profes- 
sional defence,  you  now  have  the  option  of  addressing 
the  Court." 

"  Let  the  prosecution  proceed." 

There  was  no  quiver  in  her  voice,  as  cold,  sweet  and 
distinct  it  found  its  way  to  the  extremity  of  the  wide 
apartment ;  yet  therein  lurked  no  defiance.  She  re- 
sumed her  seat,  and  her  eyes  sank,  until  the  long  black 
fringes  veiled  their  depths.  Unperceived,  Judge  Dent 
had  found  a  seat  behind  her,  and  leaning  forward  he 
whispered  : 

"  Will  you  permit  me  to  speak  for  you  ? " 

"  Thank  you — no." 

"  But  it  cuts  me  to  the  heart  to  see  you  so  forsaken, 
so  helpless." 

"  God  is  my  helper  ;  He  will  not  forsake   me." 

The  first  witness  called  and  sworn  was  Doctor  Led- 
yard,  the  physician  who  for  many  years  had  attended 
General  Darrington  ;  and  who  testified  that  when  sum- 
moned to  examine  the  body  of  deceased,  on  the  morn- 
ing of  the  inquest,  he  had  found  it  so  rigid  that  at  least 
eight  hours  must  have  elapsed  since  life  became  ex- 
tinct. Had  discovered  no  blood  stains,  and  only  two 
contusions,  one  on  the  right  temple,  where  a  circular 
black  spot  was  conspicuous,  and  a  bluish  bruise  over 
the  region  of  the  heart.  He  had  visited  deceased  on 
the  morning  of  previous  day,  and  he  then  appeared 
much  better,  and  almost  relieved  of  rheumatism  and 
pains  attributable  to  an  old  wound  in  the  right  knee. 
The  skull  had  not  been  fractured  by  the  blow  on  the 
temple,  but  witness  believed  it  had  caused  death ;  and 
the  andiron,  which  he  identified  as  the  one  found  on 
the  floor  close  to  the  deceased,  was  so  unusually 
massive,  he  was  positive  that  if  hurled  with  any  force,  it 
would  produce  a  fatal  result. 

Mr.  Churchill  :  "  Did  you  at  that  examination  de- 
tect any  traces  of  chloroform  ?  " 

"  There  was  an  odor  of  chloroform  very  perceptible 
when  we  lifted  the  hair  to  examine  the  skull ;  and  on 
searching  the  room,  we  found  a  vial  which  had  con- 


BY  A UGUSTA  E VANS  WILSON.  1 63 

tained  chloroform,  and  was  beside  the  pillow,  where  a 
portion  had  evidently  leaked  out." 

"  Could  death  have  occured  in  consequence  of  in- 
haling that  chloroform  ?  " 

"  If  so,  the  deceased  could  never  have  risen,  and 
would  have  been  found  in  his  bed  ;  moreover,  the  limbs 
were  drawn  up,  and  bent  into  a  position  totally  incon- 
sistent with  any  theory  of  death  produced  by  anaes- 
thetics ;  and  the  body  was  rigid  as  iron." 

The  foregoing  testimony  was  confirmed  by  that  of 
Doctor  Cranmar,  a  resident  physician,  who  had  been 
summoned  by  the  Coroner  to  assist  Doctor  Ledyard  in 
the  examination,  reported  formally  at  the  inquest. 

"  Here,  gentlemen  of  the  jury,  is  the  fatal  weapon 
with  which  a  woman's  hands,  supernaturally  nerved  in 
the  struggle  for  gain,  struck  down,  destroyed  a  vener- 
able old  man,  an  honored  citizen,  whose  gray  hairs 
should  have  shielded  him  from  the  murderous  assault 
of  a  mercenary  adventuress.  Can  she  behold  without 
a  shndder,  this  tell-tale  instrument  of  her  monstrous 
crime  ? " 

High  above  his  head,  Mr.  Churchill  raised  the  old- 
fashioned  andiron,  and  involuntarily  Beryl  glanced  at 
the  quaint  brass  figure,  cast  in  the  form  of  a  unicorn, 
with  a  heavy  ball  surmounting  the  horn. 

"  Abednego  Darrington  !  " 

Sullen,  crestfallen  and  woe-begone  was  the  demeanor 
of  the  old  negro,  who  had  been  brought  vi  et  armis  by 
a  constable,  from  the  seclusion  of  a  corner  of  the  "  Bend 
Plantation,"  where  he  had  secreted  himself,  to  avoid 
the  shame  of  bearing  testimony  against  his  mistress' 
child.  When  placed  on  the  witness  stand,  he  crossed 
his  arms  over  his  chest,  planted  his  right  foot  firmly  in 
advance,  and  fixed  his  eyes  on  the  leather  strings  that 
tied  his  shoes. 

After  some  important  preliminaries,  the  District 
Solicitor  asked: 

"  When  did  you  first  see  the  prisoner,  who  now  sits 
before  you  ?  " 

"  When  she  came  to  our  house,  the  evening  before 
ole  Marster  died." 

"  You  admitted  her  to  your  master's  presence  ?  " 

"  I  never  tuck  no  sech  libberties.  He  tole  me  to  let 
her  in." 


164  THE  TRIAL  OF  BERYL. 

"  You  carried  her  to  his  room  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  About  what  time  of  the  day  was  it  ? " 

"  Don't  know." 

"General  Darrington  always  dined  at  three  o'clock. 
Was  it  before  or  after  dinner?" 

"  After." 

"  How  long  was  the  prisoner  in  the  General's  room?" 

"  Don't  know." 

"  Did  she  leave  the  house  by  the  front  door,  or  the 
side  door  ?  " 

"  Can't  say.     Didn't  see  her  when  she  come  out." 

"  About  how  long  was  she  in  the  house  ?  " 

"  I  totes  no  watch,  and  I  never  had  no  luck  guess- 
ing. I'm  shore  to  land  wrong." 

"  Was  it  one  hour  or  two  ?  " 

"  Mebbe  more,  mebbe  less." 

"  Where  were  you  during  that  visit  ?" 

"  Feedin'  my  game  pullets  in  the  backyard." 

'•  Did  you  hear  any  part  of  the  conversation  between 
the  prisoner  and  General  Darrington  ?  " 

"No,  sir!  I'm  above  the  meanness  of  eavesdrap- 
ping." 

"  How  did  you  learn  that  she  was  the  granddaughter 
of  General  Darrington  ?  " 

"  Miss  Angerline,  the  white  'oman  what  mends  and 
sews,  come  to  the  back  piazer,  and  beckoned  me  to 
run  there.  She  said  ther'  must  be  'a  high  ole  fracas', 
them  was  her  words,  agoin'  on  in  Marster's  room,  for 
he  was  cussin'  and  swearin',  and  his  granddaughter  was 
jawing  back  very  vicious.  Sez  I,  'Who?*  Sez  she, 
'  His  granddaughter ;  that  is  Ellice's  chile '.  Sez  I, 
'  How  do  you  know  so  much  '  ?  Sez  she,  « I  was  darn- 
ing them  liberry  curtains,  and  I  couldn't  help  hearing 
the  wrangle  '.  Sez  I,  '  You  picked  a  oncommon  handy 
time  to  tackle  them  curtains  ;  they  must  be  mighty 
good  to  cure  the  ear-itch  '.  She  axed  me  if  I  didn't 
see  the  family  favor  in  the  'oman's  face  ;  and  I  tole 
her  no,  but  I  would  see  for  myself.  Sez  she,  to  me, 
'  No  you  won't,  for  the  General  is  in  a  tearing  rage, 
and  he's  done  drove  her  out,  and  kicked  and  slammed 
the  doors.  She's  gone.'  " 

"Then  you  did  not  see  her  ? " 

"  I  went  to  the  front  piazer,  and  I  seen  her  far  down 


BY  AUGUSTA  E^AA'S  WILSON.  165 

the  lawn,  but  Marster  rung  his  bell  so  savage,  I  had  to 
run  back  to  him." 

"  Did  he  tell  you  the  prisoner  was  his  grand- 
daughter ?  " 

"  No,  sir." 

"Did  you  mention  the  fact  to  him  " 

"I  wouldn't  'a  dared  to  meddle  with  his  fambly 
bizness ! " 

"  He  appeared  very  angry  and  excited  ?  " 

"  He  'peared  to  \\ant  some  ole  Conyyac  what  was 
in  the  sideboard,  and  I  brung  throttle  to  him." 

"  Do  you  remember  whether  his  vault  in  the  wall 
was  open,  when  you  answered  the  bell  ?  " 

"  I  didn't  notice  it." 

"  Where  did  you  sleep  that  night  ?  " 

"  On  a  pallet  in  the  middle  passage,  nigh  the  star 
steps." 

"  Was  that  your  usual  custom  ?  " 

"No,  sir.  But  the  boy  what  had  been  sleepin'  in 
the  house  while  ole  Marster  was  sick,  had  gone  to  set 
up  with  his  daddie's corpse,  and  I  tuck  his  place." 

"  Did  you  hear  any  unusual  noise  during  the 
night  ?  " 

"  Only  the  squalling  of  the  pea-fowul  what  was 
oncammon  oneasy,  and  the  thunder  that  was  ear-split- 
ting. One  clap  was  so  tremenjous  it  raised  me  plum 
off'en  the  pallet,  and  jarred  me  to  my  backbone,  as  if 
a  cannon  had  gone  off  close  by." 

"  Now,  Bedney,  state  carefully  all  the  circumstances 
under  which  you  found  your  master  the  next  morning  ; 
and  remember  you  are  on  your  oath,  to  speak  the  truth, 
and  all  the  truth." 

"  He  was  a  early  riser,  and  always  wanted  his 
shavin'  water  promp'.  When  his  bell  didn't  ring,  I 
thought  the  storm  had  kep'  him  awake,  and  he  was 
having  a  mornin'  nap,  to  make  up  for  lost  time.  The 
clock  had  struck  eight,  and  the  cook  said  as  how  the 
steak  and  chops  was  dry  as  a  bone  from  waitin',  and  so 
I  got  the  water  and  went  to  Marster's  door.  It  was 
shet  tight,  and  I  knocked  easy.  He  never  answered  ; 
so  I  knocked  louder ;  and  thinkin'  somethin'  was 
shorely  wrong,  I  opened  the  door — " 

"  Go  on.     What  did  you  find  ?  " 

"  Mars  Alfred,  sir,  it's  very  harryfyin  to  my  feelins." 


1 66  THE  TRIAL  OF  BERYL. 

"  Go  on.  You  are  required  to  state  all  you  saw,  all 
you  know." 

Bedney  drew  back  his  right  foot,  advanced  his  left. 
Took  out  his  handkerchief,  wiped  his  face  and  refolded 
his  arms. 

"  My  Marster  was  a  layin'  on  the  rug  before  the  fire- 
place, and  his  knees  was  all  drawed  up.  His  right 
arm  was  streched  out,  so — and  his  left  hand  was  all 
doubled  up.  I  know'd  he  was  dead,  before  I  teched  him, 
for  his  face  was  set,  and  pinched  and  blue.  I  reckon  I 
hollered,  but  I  can't  say,  for  the  next  thing  I  knowed, 
the  horsier  and  the  cook,  and  Miss  Angerline,  and 
Dyce,  my  pie  'oman,  and  Gord  knows  who  all,  was 
streamin'  in  and  out  and  screamin'." 

"  What  was  the  condition  of  the  room  ?  " 

"  The  front  window  was  up,  and  the  blinds  was  flung 
wide  open,  and  a  cheer  was  upside  down  close  to  it. 
The  red  vases  what  stood  on  the  fire-place  mantle  was 
smashed  on  the  carpet,  and  the  handi'on  was  close  to 
Marster's  right  hand.  The  vault  was  open,  and  papers 
was  strowed  plentiful  round  on  the  floor  under  it. 
Then  the  neighburs  and  the  Doctor,  and  the  Crowner 
came  runnin'  in,  and  I  sot  down  by  the  bed  and  cried 
like  a  chile.  Pretty  soon  they  turned  us  all  out  and 
hilt  the  inquess." 

"  You  do  not  recollect  any  other  circumstance  ?  " 

"The  lamp  on  the  table  was  burnin' — and  ther' 
wan't  much  oil  left  in  it.  I  seen  Miss  Angerline  blow 
it  out,  after  the  doctor  come." 

"  Who  found  the  chloroform  vial  ?  " 

"  Don't  know." 

"  Did  you  hear  any  name  mentioned  as  that  of  the 
murderer  ?  " 

"  Miss  Angerline  tole  the  Crowner,  that  ef  the  will 
was  missin',  General  Darrington's  granddaughter  had 
stole  it.  They  two,  with  some  other  gentleman, 
searched  the  vault,  and  Miss  Angerline  said  everything 
was  higgledy  piggledy  and  no  will  there." 

"  You  testified  before  the  coroner  ?  " 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  Why  did  you  not  give  him  the  handkerchief  you 
found  ? " 

"  I  didn't  have  it  then." 


BY  AUGUSTA  EVANS  WILSON.  167 

"  When  and  where  did  you  get  it  ?  Be  very  careful 
now." 

For  the  first  time  Bedney  raised  his  eyes  toward  the 
place  where  Dyce  sat  near  the  prisoner,  and  he  hesi- 
tated. He  took  some  tobacco  from  his  vest  pocket, 
stowed  it  away  in  the  hollow  of  his  cheek,  and  re- 
cros.-ed  his  arms. 

"  When  Marster  was  dressed,  and  they  carried  him 

0  t  to  the  drawing-room,  Dyce  was  standin'  cryin'  by 
the  fireplace,  and  I  went  to  the  bed,  and  put  my  hand 
under    the    bolster,    where    Marster    always    kep'  his 
watch  and  his   pistol.     The  watch  was  ther'  but    no 
pistol  ;  and  just  sorter  stuffed  under  the  pillow  case — 
was    a  hank'cher.     I    tuk  the   watch  straight   to   the 
gentlemen   in  the  drawin'-room,  and   they  come  back 
and  sarched  for  the  pistol,  and  we  foun'  it  layin'  in  its 
case  in   the  table  draw'.     Of  all  the  nights  in  his  life, 
ole  Marster  had  forgot  to  lay  his  pistol  handy." 

"  Never  mind  about  the  pistol.  What  became  of 
the  handkerchief  ? " 

"When  I  picked  it  up,  an  injun-rubber  stopper 
rolled  out,  and  as  ther'  wan't  no  value  in  a  hank'cher, 

1  saw  no  harm  in  keepin'  it — for  a  'mento  of  ole  Mars- 
ter's  death." 

"  You  knew  it  was  a  lady's  handkerchief." 

"  No,  sir  !  I  didn't  know  it  then  ;  and  what's  more, 
I  don't  know  it  now." 

"  Is  not  this  the  identical  handkerchief  you 
found  ? " 

"  Can't  say.  '  Dentical  is  a  ticklish  trap  for  a  pusson 
on  oath.  It  do  look  like  it,  to  be  shore  ;  but  two  seed 
in  an  okrey  pod  is  ezactly  alike,  and  one  is  one,  and 
t'other  is  t'other." 

"  Look  at  it.  To  the  best  of  your  knowledge  and 
belief  it  is  the  identical  handkerchief  you  found  on 
General  Darrington's  pillow  ?  " 

"  What  I  found  had  red  specks  sewed  in  the  border, 
and  this  seems  jest  like  it ;  but  I  don't  sware  to  no 
dentical — 'cause  I  means  to  be  kereful ;  and  I  will 
^tand  to  the  aidge  of  my  oath  ;  but — Mars  Alfred — 
jon't  shove  me  over  it." 

"  Can't  you  read  ?  " 

"No,  sir;  I  never  hankered  after  book-larnin'  tom- 
y,  and  other  freedom  frauds." 


1 68  THE  TRIAL  OF  BERYL. 

"  You  know  your  A  B  C's  ?  " 

"  No  more'n  a  blind  mule." 

As  the  solicitor  took  from  the  table  in  front  of  the 
jury  box,  the  embroidered  square  of  cambric,  and  held 
it  up  by  two  corners,  every  eye  in  the  court-room  fast- 
ened upon  it ;  and  a  deadly  faintness  seized  the 
prisoner,  whitening  lips  that  hitherto  had  kept  their 
scarlet  outlines. 

"Gentleman  of  the  jury,  if  the  murdered  man  could 
stand  before  you,  for  one  instant  only,  his  frozen  ringer 
would  point  to  the  fatal  letters  which  destiny  seems  to 
have  left  as  a  bloody  brand.  Here  in  indelible  colors 
are  wrought  '  B.  B.' — Beryl  Brentano.  Do  you  won- 
der, gentlemen,  that  when  this  overwhelming  evidence 
of  her  guilt  came  into  my  possession,  compassion  for  a 
beautiful  woman  was  strangled  by  supreme  horror,  in 
the  contemplation  of  the  depravity  of  a  female  mon- 
ster ?  If  these  crimson  letters  were  gaping  wounds, 
could  their  bloody  lips  more  solemnly  accuse  yonder 
blanched,  shuddering,  conscience-stricken  woman  of 
the  sickening  crime  of  murdering  her  aged,  infirm 
grandfather,  from  whose  veins  she  drew  the  red  tide 
that  now  curdles  at  her  heart  ? " 

As  the  third  day  of  the  trial  wore  away,  the  dense 
crowd  in  the  court-room  became  acquainted  with  the 
sensation  of  having  been  unjustly  defrauded  of  the 
customary  public  perquisite  ;  because  the  monotonous 
proceedings  were  entirely  devoid  of  the  spirited  verbal 
duels,  the  microscopic  hair  splitting,  the  biting  sar- 
casms of  opposing  counsel,  the  browbeating  of  wit- 
nesses, the  tenacious  wrangling  over  invisible  legal 
points,  which  usually  vary  and  spice  the  routine  and 
stimulate  the  interest  of  curious  spectators.  When  a 
spiritless  fox  disdains  to  double,  and  stands  waiting 
for  the  hounds,  who  have  only  to  rend  it,  hunters  feel 
cheated,  and  deem  it  no  chase. 

To  the  impatient  spectators,  it  appeared  a  very  tame, 
one-sided,  and  anomalous  trial,  where  like  a  slow 
stream  the  evidences  of  guilt  oozed,  and  settled  about 
the  prisoner,  who  challenged  the  credibility  of  no  wit- 
ness, and  waived  all  the  privileges  of  cross-examina- 
tion. Now  and  then,  the  audience  criticised  in  whis- 
pers the  "  undue  latitude  "  allowed  by  the  Judge,  to 


BY  AUGUSTA  E VANS  WILSON.  1 69 

the  District  Solicitor ;  but  their  "  exceptions "  were 
informal,  and  the  prosecution  received  no  serious  or 
important  rebuff. 

Was  the  accused  utterly  callous,  or  paralyzed  by 
consciousness  of  her  crime  ;  or  biding  her  time  for  a 
dramatic  outburst  of  vindicating  testimony  ?  To  her 
sensitive  nature,  the  ordeal  of  sitting  day  after  day  to 
be  stared  at  by  a  curious  and  prejudiced  public,  was 
more  torturing  than  the  pangs  of  Marsyas ;  and  she 
wondered  whether  a  courageous  Roman  captive  who 
was  shorn  of  his  eyelids,  and  set  under  the  blistering 
sun  of  Africa,  suffered  any  more  keenly  ;  but  motion- 
less, apparently  impassive  as  a  stone  mask,  on  whose 
features  pitiless  storms  beat  in  vain,  she  bore  without 
wincing  the  agony  of  her  humiliation.  Very  white  and 
still,  she  sat  hour  by  hour  with  downcast  eyes,  and 
folded  hands ;  and  those  who  watched  most  closely 
could  detect  only  one  change  of  position  ;  now  and 
then  she  raised  her  clasped  hands,  and  rested  her  lips 
a  moment  on  the  locked  fingers,  then  dropped  them 
wearily  on  her  lap. 

Even  when  a  juryman  asked  two  searching  ques- 
tions of  a  witness,  she  showed  no  sign  of  perturbation, 
and  avoided  meeting  the  eyes  in  the  jury-box,  as 
though  they  belonged  to  basilisks.  Was  it  only  three 
days  since  the  beginning  of  this  excruciating  martyrdom 
of  soul ;  and  how  much  longer  could  she  endure 
silently,  and  keep  her  reason  ? 

At  times,  Sister  Serena's  hand  forsook  the  knitting, 
to  lay  a  soft,  caressing  touch  of  encouragement  and 
sympathy  on  the  girl's  shoulder  ;  and  Dyce's  burning 
indignation  vented  itself  in  frequent  audible  grating  of 
her  strong  white  teeth.  So  passed  Monday,  Tuesday, 
Wednesday,  in  the  examination  of  witnesses  who 
recapitulated  all  that  had  been  elicited  at  the  pre- 
liminary investigation  ;  and  each  nook  and  cranny  of 
recollection  in  the  mind  of  Anthony  Burk,  the  station 
agent ;  of  Belshazzer  Tatem,  the  lame  gardener ;  of 
/can  and  acrid  Miss  Angeline,  the  seamstress,  was  illu- 
minated by  the  lurid  light  of  Mr.  Churchill's  adroit 
interrogation.  Thus  far,  the  prosecution  had  been 
conducted  by  the  District  Solicitor,  with  the  occasional 
assistance  of  Mr.  Wolverton.  who.  in  conjunction  with 
Mr.  Dunbar,  had  appeared  as  representative  or.  UK 


I/O  THE  TRIAL  OF  BERYL. 

Darrington  estate,  and  its  legal  heir,  Prince  ;  and  when 
court  adjourned  on  Wednesday,  the  belief  was  gener- 
ally entertained  that  no  defence  was  possible ;  and 
that  at  the  last  moment,  the  prisoner  would  confess 
her  crime,  and  appeal  to  the  mercy  of  the  jury.  As 
the  deputy  sheriff  led  his  prisoner  toward  the  rear  en- 
trance, where  stood  the  dismal  funereal  black  wagon  in 
which  she  was  brought  from  prison  to  court,  Judge 
Dent  came  quickly  to  meet  her. 

"  My  niece,  Miss  Gordon,  could  not,  of  course, 
come  into  the  court-room,  but  she  is  here  in  the 
library,  with  her  aunt,  and  desires  to  see  you  for  a  mo- 
ment ?  " 

"  Tell  her  I  am  grateful  for  her  kind  motives,  but  I 
wish  to  see  no  one  now." 

"  For  your  own  sake,  consider  the — ah  !  here  is 
my  niece." 

"  1  hope  you  need  no  verbal  assurance  of  my  deep 
sympathy,  and  my  constant  prayers,"  said  Leo,  tak- 
ing one  passive  hand  between  hers,  and  pressing  it 
warmly. 

"  Miss  Gordon,  I  am  comforted  by  your  compas- 
sion, and  by  your  unwavering  confidence  in  a  stranger 
whom  your  townsmen  hold  up  as  a  '  female  monster.' 
Because  I  so  profoundly  realize  how  good  you  are,  I 
am  unwilling  that  you  should  identify  yourself  with  my 
hopeless  cause.  My  sufferings  will  soon  be  over,  and 
then  I  want  no  shadowy  reflex  cast  upon  the  smiling 
blue  sky  of  your  future.  I  have  nothing  more  to  lose, 
save  the  burden  of  a  life — that  I  shall  be  glad  to  lay 
down  ;  but  you —  !  Be  careful,  do  not  jeopardize  your 
beautiful  dream  of  happiness." 

"Why  do  you  persist  in  rejecting  the  .overtures 
of  those  who  could  assist,  who  might  successfully 
defend  you?  I  beg  of  you,  consent  to  receive  and 
confer  with  counsel,  even  to-night." 

"  You  will  never  understand  why  I  must  not,  till 
the  earth  gives  up  her  dead.  You  tremble,  because 
only  one  more  link  can  be  added  to  the  chain  that 
is  coiling  about  my  neck,  and  that  link  is  the  testi- 
mony of  the  man  whose  name  you  expect  to  bear. 
Miss  Gordon  " — she  stooped  closer,  and  whispered 
slowly  :  "  Do  not  upbraid  your  lover  ;  be  tender, 
cling  to  him ;  and  afford  me  the  consplation  of  Know* 


BY  AUGUSTA  EVANS  WILSON.  171 

ing  that  the  unfortunate  woman  you  befriended,  and 
trusted,  cast  not  even  a  fleeting  shadow  between  your 
heart  and  his.  Pray  for  me,  that  I  may  be  patient  and 
strong.  God  bless  you." 

Turning  swiftly,  she  hurried  on  to  the  officer,  who 
had  courteously  withdrawn  a  few  yards  distant.  As 
he  opened  the  door  of  the  wagon,  he  handed  her  a 
loosely  folded  sheet  of  paper. 

"  I  promised  to  deliver  your  answer  as  soon  as  pos- 
sible." 

By  aid  of  the  red  glow,  burning  low  in  the  western 
sky,  she  read : 

"  Mr.  Dunbar  requests  that  for  her  own  sake,  Miss 
Brentano  will  grant  him  an  interview  this  evening." 

"  My  answer  must  necessarily  be  verbal.  Say  that 
I  will  see  no  one." 

To  the  solitude  and  darkness  of  prison  she  fled  for 
relief,  as  into  some  merciful  sheltering  arms  ;  and  not 
even  the  loving  solicitude  of  Mrs.  Singleton  was  per- 
mitted to  penetrate  her'  seclusion,  or  share  her  dreary 
vigil.  Another  sleepless  night  dragged  its  leaden 
hours  to  meet  the  dawn,  bringing  no  rest  to  the  des- 
olate soul,  who  silently  grappled  with  fate,  while  every 
womanly  instinct  shuddered  at  the  loathsome  degrada- 
tion forced  upon  her.  Face  downward  on  her  hard, 
narrow  cot,  she  recalled  the  terrible  accusations,  the 
opprobrious  epithets,  and  tearless,  convulsive  sobs  of 
passionate  protest  shook  her  from  head  to  foot. 

Tortured  with  indignation  and  shame,  at  the  insults 
heaped  upon  her,  yet  sternly  resolved  to  endure  si- 
lently, these  nights  were  veritable  stations  along  her 
Via  Dolorosa ;  and  fortified  her  for  the  daily  flagella- 
tion in  front  of  the  jury-box. 

On  Thursday  a  slow,  sleeting  rain  enveloped  the 
world  in  a  gray  cowl,  bristling  with  ice  needles ;  yet 
when  Judge  Parkman  took  his  seat  at  nine  o'clock, 
there  was  a  perceptible  increase  in  the  living  mass, 
packed  in  every  available  inch  of  space. 

For  the  first  time,  Mr.  Dunbar's  scat  between  his 
colleagues  was  vacant;  and  Mr.  Churchill  and  Mr. 
Wolverton  were  conversing  in  an  animated  whisper. 

Clad  in  mourning  garments,  and  with  a  long  crape 


1/2  THE  TRIAL  OF  BERYL. 

veil  put  back  from  her  face,  the  prisoner  was  escorted 
to  her  accustomed  place  ;  and  braced  by  a  supreme 
effort  for  the  critical  hour,  which  she  felt  assured  was 
at  hand,  her  pale  set  features  gleamed  like  those  of  a 
marble  statue  shrouded  in  black. 

Called  to  the  stand,  Simon  Frisby  testified  that  "  he 
was  telegraph  operator,  and  night  train  despatcher  for 

railway  in  X .  On  October  the  twenty-sixth,  had 

just  gone  on  duty  at  8  P.M.  at  the  station,  when  prisoner 
came  in,  and  sent  a  telegram  to  New  York.  A  copy 
of  that  message  had  been  surrendered  to  the  District 
Solicitor.  Witness  had  remained  all  night  in  his  office, 
which  adjoined  the  ladies'  waiting-room;  and  his  atten- 
tion having  been  attracted  by  the  unusual  fact  that  it 
was  left  open  and  lighted,  he  had  twice  gone  to  the 
door  and  looked  in,  but  saw  no  one.  Thought  the  last 
inspection  was  about  two  o'clock,  immediately  after 
he  had  sent  a  message  to  the  conductor  on  Train  No. 
4.  Saw  prisoner  when  she  came  in,  a  half  hour  later, 
and  heard  the  conversation  between  her  and  Burk.  the 
station  agent.  Was  very  positive  prisoner  could  not 
have  been  in  the  ladies'  waiting-room  during  the  severe 
storm." 

Mr.  Churchill  read  aloud  the  telegram  addressed  to 
Mrs.  Ignace  Brentano  :  "  Complete  success  required 
delay.  All  will  be  satisfactory.  Expect  me  Saturday. 
B.  B." 

He  commented  on  its  ambiguous  phraseology,  sent 
the  message  to  the  jury  for  inspection,  and  resumed 
his  chair. 

"Lennox  Dunbar." 

Sister  Serena's  knitting  fell  from  her  fingers;  Dyce 
groaned  aubibly,  and  Judge  Dent,  sitting  quite  near, 
uttered  a  heavy  sigh.  The  statue  throbbed  into  life, 
drew  herself  proudly  up ;  and  with  a  haughty  poise  of 
the  head,  her  grand  eloquent  gray  eyes  looked  up  at 
the  witness,  and  for  the  first  time  during  the  trial  bore 
a  challenge.  For  fully  a  moment,  eye  met  eye,  soul 
looked  into  soul,  with  only  a  few  feet  of  space  dividing 
prisoner  and  witness  ;  and  as  the  girl  scanned  the 
dark,  resolute,  sternly  chiselled  face,  cold,  yet  hand- 
some as  some  faultless  bronze  god,  a  singular  smile 
unbent  her  frozen  lips,  and  Judge  Dent  and  Sister 


BY  AUGUSTA  EVANS  WILSON.  173 

Serena  wondered  what  the  scarcely  audible  ejaculation 
meant : 

"  At  the  mercy  of  Tiberius  !  "- 

No  faintest  reflection  of  the  fierce  pain  at  his  heart 
could  have  been  discerned  on  that  non-committal  coun- 
tenance ;  and  as  he  turned  to  the  jury,  his  swart  mag- 
netic face  appeared  cruelly  hard,  sinister. 

"  I  first  saw  the  prisoner  at  '  Elm  Bluff',  on  the 
afternoon  previous  to  General  Darrington's  death. 
When  I  came  out  of  the  house,  she  was  sitting  bare- 
headed on  the  front  steps,  fanning  herself  with  her 
hat,  and  while  I  was  untying  my  horse,  she  followed 
Bedney  into  the  library.  The  blinds  were  open  and  I 
saw  her  pass  the  window,  walking  in  the  direction  of 
the  bedroom." 

Mr.  Churchill:  "At  that  time  did  you  suspect  her 
relationship  to  your  client,  General  Darrington  ?" 

"  I  did  not." 

"  What  was  the  impression  left  upon  your  mind  ? " 

"  That  she  was  a  distinguished  stranger,  upon  some 
important  errand." 

"  She  excited  your  suspicions  at  once  ?  " 

"  Nothing  had  occurred  to  justify  suspicion.  My 
curiosity  was  aroused.  Several  hours  later  I  was 
again  at  '  Elm  Bluff,'  on  legal  business,  and  found 
General  Darrington  much  disturbed  in  consequence  of 
an  interview  with  the  prisoner,  who,  he  informed  me, 
was  the  child  of  his  daughter,  whom  he  had  many 
years  previous  disowned  and  disinherited.  In  referring 
to  this  interview,  his  words  were:  'I  was  harsh  to  the 
girl,  so  harsh  that  she  turned  upon  me,  savage  as 
a  strong  cub  defending  a  crippled,  helpless  dam. 
Mother  and  daughter  know  now  that  the  last  card  has 
been  played ;  for  I  gave  the  girl  distinctly  to  under 
stand,  that  at  my  death  Prince  would  inherit  every 
iota  of  my  estate,  and  that  my  will  had  been  carefully 
written  in  order  to  cut  them  off  without  a  cent.' " 

"You  were  led  to  infer  that  General  Darrington  had 
refused  her  application  for  money  ?" 

"There  was  no  mention  of  an  application  for  money, 
hence  I  inferred  nothing." 

"  During  that  conversation,  the  last  which  General 
Darrington  held  on  earth,  did  he  not  tell  you  he  was 


174  THE  TRIAL  OF  BERYL. 

oppressed  by  an  awful  presentiment  connected  with 
his  granddaughter  ?  " 

"  His  words  were  :  '  Somehow  I  am  unable  to  get  rid 
of  the  strange,  disagreeable  presentiment  that  girl  left 
behind  her  as  a  farewell  legacy.  She  stood  there  at 
the  glass  door,  and  raised  her  hand  :  '  General  Darring- 
ton,  when  you  lie  down  to  die,  may  God  have  more 
mercy  on  your  poor  soul,  than  you  have  shown  to  your 
suffering  child.' 

"  I  advised  him  to  sleep  off  the  disagreeable  train  of 
thought,  and  as  I  bade  him  good  night,  his  last  words 
were  : 

<: '  I  shall  write  to  Prince  to  come  home.'  " 

"What  do  you  know  concerning  the  contents  of  your 
client's  will  ?  " 

"  The  original  will  was  drawn  up  by  my  father  in 
187-,  but  last  May,  General  Darrington  required  me  to 
re-write  it,  as  he  wished  to  increase  the  amount  of  a 
bequest  to  a  certain  charitable  institution.  The  pro- 
visions of  the  will  were,  that  with  the  exception  of  va- 
rious specified  legacies,  his  entire  estate,  real  and  per- 
sonal, should  be  given  to  his  step-son  Prince  ;  and  it 
was  carefully  worded,  with  the  avowed  intention  of 
barring  all  claims  that  might  be  presented  by  Ellice 
Brentano  or  her  heirs." 

"  Do  you  recollect  any  allusion  to  jewelry  ?  " 

"  One  clause  of  the  will  set  aside  a  case  of  sapphire 
stones,  with  the  direction  that  whenever  Prince  Dar- 
rington married,  they  should  be  worn  by  the  lady  as  a 
bridal  present  from  him." 

"Would  you  not  deem  it  highly  incompatible  with  all 
you  know  of  the  General's  relentless  character,  that  said 
sapphires  and  money  should  have  been  given  to  the 
prisoner  ?  " 

"  My  surmises  would  be  irrelevant  and  valueless  to 
the  Court;  and  facts,  indisputable  facts,  are  all  that 
should  be  required  of  witnesses." 

"  When  and  where  did  you  next  see   the  prisoner  ?  " 

Cold,  crisp,  carefully  accentuated,  his  words  fell  like 
lead  upon  the  ears  of  all  present,  whose  sympathies 
were  enlisted  for  the  desolate  woman ;  and  as  he 
stood,  tall,  graceful,  with  one  hand  thrust  within  his 
vest,  the  other  resting  easily  on  the  back  of  the  bench 
near  him,  his  clear  cut  face  SQ  suggestive  of 


BY  A UGUSTA  E VANS  WILSON.  1 7 5 

medallions,  gave  no  more  hint  of  the  smouldering 
flame  at  his  heart  than  the  glittering  ice  crown  of 
Eiriksjokull  betrays  the  fierce  lava  tides  beating  be- 
neath its  frozen  crust. 

"At  10  o'clock  on  the  same  night,  I  saw  the  pris- 
oner on  the  road  leading  from  town  to  '  Elm  Bluff',  and 
not  farther  than  half  a  mile  from  the  cedar  bridge 
spanning  the  '  branch',  at  the  foot  of  the  hill  where  the 
iron  gate  stands." 

"  She  was  then  going  in  the  direction  of  '  Elm 
Bluff  ? '  " 

"  She  was  sitting  on  the  ground,  with  her  head  lean- 
ing against  a  pine  tree,  but  she  rose  as  I  approached." 

"As  it  was  at  night,  is  there  a  possibility  of  your 
having  mistaken  some  one  else  for  the  prisoner  ?  " 

"  None  whatever.  She  wore  no  hat,  and  the  moon 
shone  full  on  her  face." 

"  Did  you  not  question  her  about  her  presence  there, 
at  such  an  hour  ?  " 

"  I  asked  :  '  Madam,  you  seem  a  stranger  ;  have 
you  lost  your  way  ? '  She  answered,  '  No,  sir.'  I 
added:  *  Pardon  me,  but  having  seen  you  at  "Elm 
Bluff"  this  afternoon,  I  thought  it  possible  you  had 
missed  the  road.'  She  made  no  reply,  and  I  rode  on 
to  town." 

"  She  betrayed  so  much  trepidation  and  embarass- 
ment,  that  your  suspicion  was  at  once  aroused  ?  " 

"  She  evinced  neither  trepidation  nor  embarrass- 
ment. Her  manner  was  haughty  and  repellant,  as 
though  designed  to  rebuke  impertinence.  Next  morn- 
ing, when  informed  of  the  peculiar  circumstances  at- 
tending General  Darrington's  death,  I  felt  it  incumbent 
upon  me  to  communicate  to  the  magistrate  the  facts 
which  I  have  just  narrated." 

"  An  overwhelming  conviction  of  the  prisoner's  guilt 
impelled  you  to  demand  her  arrest  ?  " 

"  Overwhelming  conviction  rarely  results  from  merely 
circumstantial  evidence,  but  a  combination  of  accusing 
circumstances  certainly  pointed  to  the  prisoner ;  and 
following  their  guidance,  I  am  responsible  for  her 
arrest  and  detention  for  trial.  To  the  scrutiny  of  the 
Court  I  have  submitted  every  fact  that  influenced  my 
action,  and  the  estimate  of  their  value  decided  by  the 
jurymen,  must  either  confirm  the  cogency  of  my  reason- 


1/6  THE  TRIAL  OF  BERYL. 

ing,  or  condemn  my  rash  fallibility.  Having  under 
oath  conscientiously  given  all  the  evidence  in  my  pos- 
session, that  the  prosecution  would  accept  or  desire,  I 
now  respectfully  request,  that  unless  the  prisoner 
chooses  to  exercise  her  right  of  cross-examination,  my 
colleagues  of  the  prosecution,  and  his  Honor,  will 
grant  me  a  final  discharge  as  witness." 

Turning  toward  Beryl,  Judge  Parkman  said  : 

"  It  is  my  duty  again  to  remind  you,  that  the  cross- 
examination  of  witnesses  is  one  of  the  most  important 
methods  of  defence;  as  thereby  inaccuracies  of  state- 
ment regarding  time,  place,  etc.,  are  often  detected  in 
criminal  prosecutions,  which  otherwise  might  remain 
undiscovered.  To  this  invaluable  privilege  of  every 
defendant,  I  call  your  attention  once  more.  Will  you 
cross-question  the  witness  on  the  stand  ?  " 

Involuntarily  her  eyes  sought  those  of  the  witness, 
and  despite  his  locked  and  guarded  face,  she  read 
there  an  intimation  that  vaguely  disquieted  her.  She 
knew  that  the  battle  with  him  must  yet  be  fought. 

"I  waive  the  right." 

"  Then,  with  the  consent  of  the  prosecuting  counsel, 
witness  is  discharged,  subject  to  recall  should  the 
necessities  of  rebuttal  demand  it." 

"By  agreement  with  my  colleagues,  I  ask  for  final 
discharge,  subject  to  your  Honor's  approval." 

"  If  in  accordance  with  their  wishes,  the  request  is 
granted." 

The  clock  on  the  turret  struck  one,  the  hour  of 
adjournment,  and  ere  recess  was  declared,  Mr.  Church- 
ill rose. 

"  Having  now  proved  by  trustworthy  and  unques- 
tioned witnesses  a  dark  array  of  facts,  which  no 
amount  of  additional  testimony  could  either  strengthen, 
or  controvert,  the  prosecution  here  rest  their  case  be- 
fore the  jury  for  inspection  ;  and  feeling  assured  that 
only  one  conclusion  can  result,  will  call  no  other  wit- 
ness, unless  required  in  rebuttal." 

Desiring  to  be  alone,  Beryl  had  shut  out  even  Sister 
Serena,  and  as  the  officer  locked  her  into  a  dark  ante- 
chamber, adjoining  the  court-room,  she  began  to  pace 
the  floor.  One  tall,  narrow  window,  dim  with  inside 
dust,  showed  her  through  filmy  cobwebs  the  gray  wai' 


BY  AUGUSTA  E VANS  WILSON.  1 77 

of  rain  falling  ceaselessly  outside,  darkening  the  day 
that  seemed  a  fit  type  of  her  sombre-hued  life,  drawing 
swiftly  to  its  close,  with  no  hope  of  rift  in  the  clouds, 
no  possibility  of  sunset  glow  even  to  stain  its  grave. 
Oh  !  to  be  hidden  safely  in  mother  earth — away  from 
the  gaping  crowd  that  thirsted  for  her  blood  ! — at  rest 
in  darkness  and  in  silence ;  with  the  maddening  stings 
of  outraged  innocence  and  womanly  delicacy  stilled 
forever.  Oh !  the  coveted  peace  of  lying  under  the 
sod,  with  only  nodding  daisies,  whispering  grasses, 
crystal  chimes  of  vernal  rain,  solemn  fugue  of  wintry 
winds  between  her  tired,  aching  eyes  and  the  fair, 
eternal  heavens  !  Harrowing  days  and  sleepless, 
horror-haunted  nights,  invincible  sappers  and  miners, 
had  robbed  her  of  strength  ;  and  the  uncontrollable 
shivering  that  now  and  then  seized  her,  warned  her 
that  her  nerves  were  in  revolt  against  the  unnatural 
strain.  The  end  was  not  far  distant,  she  must  endure 
a  little  longer ;  but  that  last  batttle  with  Mr.  Dunbar  ? 
On  what  ground,  with  what  weapons  would  he  force 
her  to  fight  ?  Kneeling  in  front  of  a  wooden  bench  that 
lined  one  side  of  the  room,  she  laid  her  head  on  the 
seat,  covered  her  face  with  her  hands,  and  prayed  for 
guidance,  for  divine  help  in  her  hour  of  supreme  deso- 
lation. 

"  God  of  the  helpless,  succor  me  in  my  need.  For- 
bid that  through  weakness  the  sacrifice  should  be 
incomplete.  Lead,  sustain,  fortify  me  with  patience, 
that  I  may  ransom  the  soul  I  have  promised  to  save." 

After  a  time,  when  she  resumed  her  walk,  a  strange 
expedient  presented  itself.  If  she  sent  for  Mr.  Dunbar, 
exacted  an  oath  of  secrecy,  and  confided  the  truth  to 
his  keeping,  would  it  avail  to  protect  her  secret ; 
would  it  silence  him  ?  Could  she  stoop  so  low  as  to 
throw  herself  upon  his  mercy  ?  Therein  lay  the  nause- 
ous lees  of  her  cup  of  humiliation  ;  yet  if  she  drained 
this  last  black  drop,  would  any  pledge  have  power  to 
seal  his  lips,  when  he  saw  that  she  must  die  ? 

The  deputy  sheriff  unlocked  the  door,  and  she 
mechanically  followed  him. 

"  I  wish  you  would  drink  this  glass  of  wine.  You 
look  so  exhausted,  and  the  air  in  yonder  is  so  close,  it 
is  enough  to  stifle  a  mole.  This  will  help  to  brace  you 
up." 

12 


178  THE  TRIAL  OF  BERYL. 

"  Thank  you  very  much,  but  I  could  not  take  it.  I 
can  bear  my  wrongs  even  to  the  end,  and  that  must  be 
very  near." 

As  he  ushered  her  into  the  court-room,  Judge  Dent 
met  her,  took  her  hand,  and  led  her  to  the  seat  where 
Dyce  and  Sister  Serena  awaited  her  return. 

"  My  poor  child,  be  courageous  now ;  and  remember 
that  you  have  some  friends  here,  who  are  praying  God 
to  help  and  deliver  you." 

"  Did  He  deliver  His  own  Son  from  the  pangs  of 
death  ?  Pray,  that  I  may  be  patient  to  endure." 

One  swift  glance  showed  her  that  Mr.  Dunbar,  for- 
saking his  former  place  beside  the  district  attorney, 
was  sitting  very  near,  just  in  front  of  her.  The  jury- 
men filed  slowly  into  their  accustomed  seats,  and  the 
judge,  who  had  been  resting  his  head  on  his  hand, 
straightened  himself,  and  put  aside  a  book.  There 
was  an  ominous  hush  pervading  the  dense  crowd,  and 
in  that  moment  of  silent  expectancy,  Beryl  shut  her 
eyes  and  communed  with  her  God.  Some  mystical 
exaltation  of  soul  removed  her  from  the  realm  of  nerv- 
ous dread  ;  and  a  peace,  that  this  world  neither  gives 
nor  takes  away,  settled  upon  her.  Sister  Serena 
untied  and  took  off  the  crape  veil  and  bonnet,  and  as 
she  resumed  her  seat,  Judge  Parkman  turned  to  the 
prisoner. 

"  In  assuming  the  responsibility  of  your  own  defence 
you  have  adopted  a  line  of  policy  which,  however  satis- 
factory to  yourself,  must,  in  the  opinion  of  the  public, 
have  a  tendency  to  invest  your  cause  with  peculiar 
peril  ;  therefore  I  impress  upon  you  the  fact,  that  while 
the  law  holds  you  innocent,  until  twelve  men  agree 
that  the  evidence  proves  you  guilty,  the  time  has  ar- 
rived when  your  cause  depends  upon  your  power  to 
refute  the  charges,  and  disprove  the  alleged  facts  ar- 
rayed against  you.  The  discovery  and  elucidation  of 
Truth,  is  the  supreme  aim  of  a  court  of  justice,  and 
to  its  faithful  ministers  the  defence  of  innocence  is 
even  more  imperative  than  the  conviction  of  guilt.  The 
law  is  a  Gibraltar,  fortified  and  armed  by  the  consum- 
mate wisdom  of  successive  civilizations,  as  an  impreg- 
nable refuge  for  innocence ;  and  here,  within  its  pro- 
tecting bulwarks,  as  in  the  house  of  a  friend,  you  are 
called  on  to  plead  your  defence.  You  have  heard  the 


BY  A UGUSTA  E VANS  WILSON.  \ 79 

charges  of  the  prosecution  ;  listened  to  the  testimony 
of  the  witnesses  ;  and  having  taken  your  cause  into 
your  own  hands,  you  must  now  stand  up  and  defend 
it." 

She  rose  and  walked  a  few  steps  closer  to  the  jury, 
and  for  the  first  time  during  the  trial,  looked  at  them 
steadily.  White  as  a  statue  of  Purity,  she  stood  for 
a  moment,  with  her  wealth  of  shining  auburn  hair 
coiled  low  on  her  shapely  head,  and  waving  in  soft 
outlines  around  her  broad  full  brow.  Unnaturally 
calm,  and  wonderfully  beautiful  in  that  sublime  sur- 
render, which  like  a  halo  illumines  the  myth  of  Anti- 
gone, it  was  not  strange  that  every  heart  thrilled,  when 
upon  the  strained  ears  of  the  multitude  fell  the  clear, 
sweet,  indescribably  mournful  voice. 

"  When  a  magnolia  blossom  or  a  white  camelia  just 
fully  open,  is  snatched  by  violent  hands,  bruised, 
crushed,  blackened,  scarred  by  rents,  is  it  worth  keep- 
ing ?  No  power  can  undo  the  ruin,  and  since  all  that 
made  it  lovely — its  stainless  purity — is  irrevocably 
destroyed,  why  preserve  it  ?  Such  a  pitiable  wreck 
you  have  made  of  the  young  life  I  am  bidden  to  stand 
up  and  defend.  Have  you  left  me  anything  to  live 
for  ?  Dragged  by  constables  before  prejudiced  stran- 
gers, accused  of  awful  crimes,  denounced  as  a  female 
monster,  herded  with  convicts,  can  you  imagine  any 
reason  why  I  should  struggle  to  prolong  a  disgraced, 
hopelessly  ruined  existence  ?  My  shrivelled,  mutilated 
life  is  in  your  hands,  and  if  you  decide  to  crush  it 
quickly,  you  will  save  me  much  suffering ;  as  when 
having,  perhaps  unintentionally,  mangled  some  harm- 
less insect,  you  mercifully  turn  back,  grind  it  under 
your  heel,  and  end  its  torture.  My  life  is  too  wretched 
now  to  induce  me  to  defend  it,  but  there  is  something 
I  hold  far  dearer,  my  reputation  as  an  honorable 
Christian  woman ;  something  I  deem  most  sacred  of 
all — the  unsullied  purity  of  the  name  my  father  and 
mother  bore.  Because  I  am  innocent  of  every  charge 
made  against  me,  I  owe  it  to  my  dead,  to  lift  their 
honored  name  out  of  the  mire.  I  have  pondered  the 
testimony  ;  and  the  awful  mass  of  circumstances  that 
have  combined  to  accuse  me,  seems  indeed  so  Over- 
whelming, that  as  each  witness  came  forward,  I  have 
asked  myself,  am  I  the  victim  of  some  baleful  destiny, 


180  THE  TRIAL  OF  BERYL. 

placed  in  the  grooves  of  destroying  fate — foreordained 
from  the  foundations  of  the  world  to  bear  the  burden 
of  another's  guilt  ?  You  have  been  told  that  I  killed 
General  Darrington,  and  stole  his  money  and  jewels, 
and  destroyed  his  will,  in  order  to  possess  his  estate. 
Trustworthy  witnesses  have  sworn  to  facts,  which  I 
cannot  deny,  and  you  believe  these  facts ;  and  yet, 
while  the  snare  tightens  around  my  feet,  and  I  believe 
you  intend  to  condemn  me,  I  stand  here,  and  look  you 
in  the  face — as  one  day  we  thirteen  will  surely  stand  at 
the  final  judgment — and  in  the  name  of  the  God  I 
love,  and  fear,  and  trust,  I  call  you  each  to  witness, 
that  I  am  innocent  of  every  charge  in  the  indictment. 
My  hands  are  as  unstained,  my  soul  is  as  unsullied  by 
theft  or  bloodshed,  as  your  sinless  babes  cooing  in 
their  cradles. 

"  If  you  can  clear  your  minds  of  the  foul  tenants 
thrust  into  them,  try  for  a  little  while  to  forget  all  the 
monstrous  crimes  you  have  heard  ascribed  to  me,  and 
as  you  love  your  mothers,  wives,  daughters,  go  back 
with  me,  leaving  prejudice  behind,  and  listen  dis- 
passionately to  my  most  melancholy  story.  The  river 
of  death  rolls  so  close  to  my  weary  feet,  that  I  speak 
as  one  on  the  brink  of  eternity  ;  and  as  I  hope  to  meet 
my  God  in  peace,  I  shall  tell  you  the  truth.  Some- 
times it  almost  shakes  our  faith  in  God's  justice,  when 
we  suffer  terrible  consequences,  solely  because  we  did 
our  duty  ;  and  it  seems  to  me  bitterly  hard,  inscrutable, 
that  all  my  misfortunes  should  have  come  upon  me 
thick  and  fast,  simply  because  I  obeyed  my  mother. 
You,  fathers,  say  to  your  children,  '  Do  this  for  my 
sake,'  and  lovingly  they  spring  to  accomplish  your 
wishes  ;  and  when  they  are  devoured  by  agony,  and 
smothered  by  disgrace,  can  you  sufficiently  pity  them, 
blind  artificers  of  their  own  ruin  ? 

"  Four  months  ago  I  was  a  very  poor  girl,  but  proud 
and  happy,  because  by  my  own  work  I  could  support 
my  mother  and  myself.  Her  health  failed  rapidlv,  and 
life  hung  upon  an  operation  and  certain  careful  subse- 
quent treatment,  which  it  required  one  hundred  dollars 
to  secure.  I  was  competing  for  a  prize  that  would  lift 
us  above  want,  but  time  pressed ;  the  doctor  urged 
prompt  action,  and  my  mother  desired  me  to  come 
South,  see  her  father,  deliver  a  letter  and  beg  for 


BY  AUGUSTA  E VANS  WILSON.  1 8 1 

assistance.  As  long  as  possible,  I  resisted  her  en- 
treaties, because  I  shrank  from  the  degradation  of 
coming  as  a  beggar  to  the  man  who,  I  knew,  had  dis- 
inherited and  disowned  his  daughter. 

"  Finally,  strangling  my  rebellious  reluctance,  I  ac- 
cepted the  bitter  task.  My  mother  kissed  me  good- 
bye, laid  her  hands  on  my  head  and  blessed  me  for 
acceding  to  her  wishes  :  and  so — following  the  finger 
of  Duty — I  came  here  to  be  trampled,  mangled, 
destroyed.  When  I  arrived,  I  found  I  could  catch  a 
train  going  north  at  7.15,  and  I  bought  a  return  ticket, 
and  told  the  agent  I  intended  to  ta.ke  that  train.  I 
walked  to  '  Elm  Bluff,'  and  after  waiting  a  few  moments 
was  admitted  to  General  Darrington's  presence.  The 
letter  which  I  delivered  was  an  appeal  for  one  hun- 
dred dollars,  and  it  was  received  with  an  outburst 
of  wrath,  a  flood  of  fierce  and  bitter  denunciation  of 
my  parents.  The  interview  was  indescribably  painful 
but  toward  its  close,  General  Darrington  relented.  He 
opened  his  safe  or  vault,  and  took  out  a  square  tin  box. 
Placing  it  on  the  table,  he  removed  some  papers,  and 
counted  down  into  my  hand,  five  gold  coins — twenty 
dollars  each.  When  I  turned  to  leave  him,  he  called 
me  back,  gave  me  the  morocco  case,  and  stated  that 
the  sapphires  were  very  costly,  and  could  be  sold  for  a 
large  amount.  He  added,  with  great  bitterness,  that 
he  gave  them,  simply  because  they  were  painful  sou- 
venirs of  a  past,  which  he  was  trying  to  forget ;  and 
that  he  had  intended  them  as  a  bridal  gift  to  his  son 
Prince's  wife  ;  but  as  they  had  been  bought  by  my 
mother's  mother  as  a  present  for  her  only  child,  he 
would  send  them  to  their  original  destination,  for  the 
sake  of  his  first  wife,  Helena. 

"  I  left  the  room  by  the  veranda  door,  because  he 
bade  me  do  so,  to  avoid  what  he  termed  '  the  prying  of 
servants.'  I  broke  some  clusters  of  chrysanthemums 
blooming  in  the  rose  garden,  to  carry  to  my  mother, 
and  then  I  hurried  away.  If  the  wages  of  disobedience 
be  death,  then  fate  reversed  the  mandate,  and  obedi- 
ence exacts  my  life  as  a  forfeit.  Think  of  it :  I  had 
ample  time  to  reach  the  station  before  seven  o'clock, 
and  if  I  had  gone  straight  on,  all  would  have  been 
well.  I  should  have  taken  the  7.15  train,  and  left  for- 
ever this  horrible  place.  If  1  had  not  loitered,  I 


1 82  THE  TRIAL  OF  BERYL. 

should  have  seen  once  more  my  mother's  face,  have 
escaped  shame,  despair,  ruin — oh !  the  blessedness  of 
what  '  might  have  been  ! ' 

"  Listen,  my  twelve  judges,  and  pity  the  child  who 
obeyed  at  all  hazards.  Poor  though  I  was,  I  bought  a 
small  bouquet  for  my  sick  mother  the  day  I  left  her, 
and  the  last  thing  she  did  was  to  arrange  the  flowers, 
tie  them  with  a  wisp  of  faded  blue  ribbon,  and  putting 
them  in  my  hand,  she  desired  me  to  be  sure  to  stop  at 
the  cemetery,  find  her  mother's  grave  in  the  Darring- 
ton  lot,  and  lay  the  bunch  of  blossoms  for  her  upon 
her  mother's  monument.  Mother's  last  words  were  : 
'  Don't  forget  to  kneel  down  and  pray  for  me,  at  moth- 
er's grave.' " 

The  voice  so  clear,  so  steady  hitherto,  quivered, 
ceased ;  and  the  heavy  lashes  drooped  to  hide  the  tears 
that  gathered  ;  but  it  was  only  for  a  few  seconds,  and 
she  resumed  in  the  same  cold,  distinct  tone. 

"  So  I  went  on,  and  fate  tied  the  last  millstone 
around  my  neck.  After  some  search  I  found  the  place, 
and  left  the  bunch  of  flowers  with  a  few  of  the  chrysan- 
themums ;  then  I  hastened  toward  town,  and  reached 
the  station  too  late  ;  the  7.15  train  had  gone.  Too 
late  ! — only  a  half  hour  lost,  but  it  carried  down  every- 
thing that  this  world  held  for  me.  I  used  to  wonder 
and  puzzle  over  that  passage  in  the  Bible,  '  The  stars 
in  their  courses  fought  against  Sisera ! '  I  have 
solved  that  mystery,  for  the  '  stars  in  their  courses  ' 
have  fought  against  me  ;  heaven,  earth,  man,  time,  cir- 
cumstances, coincidences,  all  spun  the  web  that  snared 
my  innocent  feet.  When  I  paid  for  the  telegram  to 
relieve  my  mother's  suspense,  I  had  not  sufficient 
money  (without  using  the  gold)  to  enable  me  to  incur 
hotel  bills  ;  and  I  asked  permission  to  remain  in  the 
waiting-room  until  the  next  train,  which  was  due  at 
3.05.  The  room  was  so  close  and  warm  I  walked  out, 
and  the  fresh  air  tempted  me  to  remain.  The  moon 
was  up,  full  and  bright,  and  knowing  no  other  street,  I 
unconsciously  followed  the  one  I  had  taken  in  the 
afternoon.  Very  soon  I  reached  the  point  near  the  old 
church  where  the  road  crosses,  and  I  turned  into  it, 
thinking  that  I  would  enjoy  one  more  breath  of  the 
pine  forest,  which  was  so  new  to  me.  It  was  so  op- 
pressively hot  I  sat  down  on  the  pine  straw,  and 


BY  AUGUSTA  EVANS  WILSON.  183 

fanned  myself  with  my  hat.  How  long  I  remained 
there,  I  know  not,  for  1  fell  asleep ;  and  when  I  awoke, 
Mr.  Dunbar  rode  up  and  asked  if  I  had  lost  my  way. 
I  answered  that  I  had  not,  and  as  soon  as  he  galloped 
on,  I  walked  back  as  rapidly  as  possible,  somewhat 
frightened  at  the  loneliness  of  my  position.  Already 
clouds  were  gathering,  and  I  had  been  in  the  waiting- 
room,  I  think  about  an  hour,  when  the  storm  broke  in 
its  fury.  I  had  seen  the  telegraph  operator  sitting  in 
his  office,  but  he  seemed  asleep,  with  his  head  resting 
on  the  table  ;  and  during  the  storm  I  sat  on  the  floor, 
in  one  corner  of  the  waiting-room,  and  laid  my  head 
on  a  chair.  At  last,  when  the  tempest  ended,  I  went 
to  sleep.  During  that  sleep,  I  dreamed  of  my  old 
home  in  Italy,  of  some  of  my  dead,  of  my  father — of 
gathering  grapes  with  one  I  clearly  loved — and  sud- 
denly some  noise  made  me  spring  to  my  feet.  I  heard 
voices  talking,  and  in  my  feverish  dreamy  state,  there 
seemed  a  resemblance  to  one  I  knew.  Only  half 
awake,  I  ran  out  on  the  pavement.  Whether  I  dreamed 
the  whole,  I  cannot  tell ;  but  the  conversation  seemed 
strangely  distinct;  and  I  can  never  forget  the  woids, 
be  they  real,  or  imaginary  : 

"  'There  ain't  no  train  till  daylight,  'cepting  it  be  the 
through  freight.' 

"  Then  a  different  voice  asked  :  l  When  is  thax 
due  ? ' 

"  '  Pretty  soon  I  reckon,  it's  mighiv  nigh  time  now, 
but  it  don't  stop  here ;  it  goes  on  to  the  water  tank> 
where  it  blows  for  the  bridge.' 

"  '  How  far  is  the  bridge  ?  * 

"  Only  a  short  piece  down  the  track,  after  you  pass 
the  tank.' 

"  When  I  reached  the  street,  I  saw  no  one  but  the 
figure  of  an  old  man,  I  think  a  negro,  who  was  walking 
away.  He  limped  and  carried  a  bundle  on  the  end  of 
a  stick  thrown  over  his  shoulder.  I  was  so  startled 
and  impresseu  by  the  fancied  sound  of  a  voice  once 
familiar  to  me,  that  I  walked  on  down  the  track,  but 
could  see  no  one.  Soon  the  '  freight '  came  along  ;  I 
stood  aside  until  it  passed,  then  returned  to  the  station, 
and  found  the  agent  standing  in  the  door.  When  he 
questioned  me  about  my  movements,  I  deemed  him 
impertinent ;  but  having  nothing  to  conceal,  stated  the 


1 84  THE  TRIAL  OF  BERYL. 

facts  I  have  just  recapitulated.  You  have  been  told 
that  I  intentionally  missed  the  train ;  that  when  seen 
at  10  P.M.  in  the  pine  woods,  I  was  stealing  back  to 
my  mother's  old  home  ;  that  I  entered  at  midnight  the- 
bedroom  where  her  father  slept,  stupefied  him  with 
chloroform,  broke  open  his  vault,  robbed  it  of  money, 
jewels  and  will ;  and  that  when  General  Darrington 
awoke  and  attempted  to  rescue  his  property,  I  deliber- 
ately killed  him.  You  are  asked  to  believe  that  I  am 
'  the  incarnate  fiend '  who  planned  and  committed  that 
horrible  crime,  and,  alas  for  me  !  every  circumstance 
seems  like  a  bloodhound  to  bay  me.  My  handkerchief 
was  found,  tainted  with  chloroform.  It  was  my  hand- 
kerchief ;  but  how  it  came  there,  on  General  Darring- 
ton's  bed,  only  God  witnessed.  I  saw  among  the  papers 
taken  from  the  tin  box  and  laid  on  the  table,  a  large 
envelope  marked  in  red  ink,  '  Last  Will  and  Testa- 
ment of  Robert  Luke  Darrington  ' ;  but  I  never  saw  it 
afterward.  I  was  never  in  that  room  but  once ;  and 
the  last  and  only  time  I  ever  saw  General  Darrington 
was  when  I  passed  out  of  the  glass  door,  and  left  him 
standing  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  with  the  tin  box  in 
his  hand. 

"  I  can  call  no  witnesses  ;  for  it  is  one  of  the  ter- 
rible fatalities  of  my  situation  that  I  stand  alone,  with 
none  to  corroborate  rny  assertions.  Strange,  inexplic- 
able coincidences  drag  me  down  ;  not  the  malice  of 
men,  but  the  throttling  grasp  of  circumstances.  I  am 
the  victim  of  some  diabolical  fate,  which  only  innocent 
blood  will  appease ;  but  though  1  am  slaughtered  for 
crimes  I  did  not  commit,  I  know,  oh  !  I  know,  that 
behind  fate,  stands  God! — the  just  and  eternal  God, 
whom  I  trust,  even  in  this  my  hour  of  extremest  peril. 
Alone  in  the  world,  orphaned,  reviled,  wrecked  for 
all  time,  without  a  ray  of  hope,  I,  Beryl  Brentano, 
deny  every  accusation  brought  against  me  in  this  cruel 
arraignment ;  and  I  call  my  only  witness,  the 
righteous  God  above  us,  to  hear  my  solemn  assevera- 
tion :  I  am  innocent  of  this  crime ;  and  when  you 
judicially  murder  me  in  the  name  of  Justice,  your  hands 
will  be  dyed  in  blood  that  an  avenging  God  will  one 
day  require  of  you.  Appearances,  circumstances,  co- 
incidences of  time  and  place,  each,  all,  conspire  to  hunt 
me  into  a  convict's  grave ;  but  remember,  my  twelve 


BY  AUGUSTA  EVANS  WILSON.  1 8$  ' 

judges,  remember  that  a  hopeless,  forsaken,  broken- 
hearted woman,  expecting  to  die  at  your  hands,  stood 
before  you,  and  pleaded  first  and  last — Not  Guilty  ! 
Not  Guilty !— " 

A  moment  she  paused,  then  raised  her  arms  towards 
heaven  and  added,  with  a  sudden  exultant  ring  in  her 
thrilling  voice,  and  a  strange  rapt  splendor  in  her  up- 
lifted eyes  : 

"Innocent!  Innocent!  Thou  God  knowest!  Inno- 
cent of  this  sin,  as  the  angels  that  see  Thy  face." 

As  a  glassy  summer  sea  suddenly  quivers,  heaves, 
billows  under  the  strong  steady  pressure  of  a  rising 
gale,  so  that  human  mass  surged  and  broke  in  waves 
of  audible  emotion,  when  Beryl's  voice  ceased ;  for  the 
grace  and  beauty  of  a  sorrowing  woman  hold  a  spell 
more  potent  than  volumes  of  forensic  eloquence,  of 
juridic  casuistry,  of  rhetorical  pyrotechnics,  and  at  its 
touch,  the  latent  floods  of  pity  gushed  ;  people  sprang 
to  their  feet,  and  somewhere  in  the  wide  auditory  a 
woman  sobbed.  Habitues  of  a  celebrated  Salon  dcs 
Etrangers  recall  the  tradition  of  a  Hungarian  noble- 
man who,  apparently  calm,  nonchalant,  debonair, 
gambled  desperately;  "while  his  right  hand,  resting 
easily  inside  the  breast  of  his  coat,  clutched  and  lacer- 
ated his  flesh  tilMiis  nails  dripped  with  blood."  With 
emotions  somewhat  analogous,  Mr.  Dunbar  sat  as 
participant  in  this  judicial  rouge  et  twir,  where  the 
stakes  were  a  human  life,  and  the  skeleton  hand  of 
death  was  already  outstretched.  Listening  to  the 
calm,  mournful  voice  which  alone  had  power  to  stir 
and  thrill  his  pulses,  he  could  not  endure  the  pain  of 
watching  the  exquisite  face  that  haunted  him  day  and 
night;  and  when  he  computed  the  chances  of  her  con- 
viction, a  maddening  perception  of  her  danger  made 
his  brain  reel. 

To  all  of  us  comes  a  supreme  hour,  when  realizing 
the  adamantine  limitations  of  human  power,  the  "thus 
far,  no  farther  "  of  resentless  physiological,  psycholog- 
cal  and  ethical  statutes  under  which  humanity  lives, 
moves,  has  its  being — our  desperate  souls  break 
through  the  meshes  of  that  pantheistic  idolatry 
which  kneels  only  to  "  Natural  Laws,"  and  spring  as 
suppliants  to  Him,  who  made  Law  possible.  We  take 


THE   TRIAL  OF  BERYL. 

.tion  of  happiness  and  prosperity,  and  while  it 
.ve  wander  far,  far  away  in  the  seductive  land  of 
.osophical  speculation,  and  level  in  the  freedom  and 
responsibility  of  Agnosticism  ;  and  lo  !  when  adver- 
sity smites,  and  bankruptcy  is  upon  us,  we  toss  the 
husks  of  the  "  Unknowable  and  Unthinkable  "  behind 
us,  and  flee  as  the  Prodigal  who  knew  his  father,  to 
that  God  whom  (in  trouble)  we  surely  know. 

Certainly  Lennox  Dunbar  was  as  far  removed  from 
religious  tendencies  as  conformity  to  the  canons  of  con- 
ventional morality  and  the  habits  of  an  honorable 
gentleman  in  good  society  would  permit ;  yet  to-day,  in 
the  intensity  of  his  dread,  lest  the  "consummate 
flower"  of  his  heart's  dearest  hope  should  be  laid  low 
in  the  dust,  he  involuntarily  invoked  the  aid  of  a  long- 
forgotten  God  ;  and  through  his  set  teeth  a  prayer 
struggled  up  to  the  throne  of  that  divine  mercy,  which 
in  sunshine  we  do  not  see,  but  which  as  the  soul's 
eternal  lighthouse  gleams,  glows,  beckons  in  the 
blackest  night  of  human  anguish.  In  boyhood,  desir- 
ing to  please  his  invalid  and  slowly  dying  mother,  he 
had  purchased  and  hung  up  opposite  her  bed,  an  illu- 
minated copy  of  her  favorite  text;  and  now,  by  some 
subtle  transmutation  in  the  conservation  of  spiritual 
energy,  each  golden  letter  of  that  Bible  text  seemed 
emblazoned  on  the  dusty  wall  of  the  court-room  :  "  God 
is  our  refuge  and  strength,  a  very  present  help  in 
trouble." 

When  a  stern  reprimand  from  the  Judge  had  quelled 
all  audible  expression  of  the  compassionate  sympathy 
that  flowed  at  the  prisoner's  story — as  the  flood  at 
Horeb  responded  to  Moses'  touch — there  was  a  brief 
silence. 

Mr.  Dunbar  rose,  crossed  the  intervening  space  and 
stood  with  his  hand  on  the  back  of  Beryl's  chair , 
then  moved  on  closer  to  the  jury  box. 

"May  it  please  your  Honor,  and  -Gentlemen  of  the 
Jury  :  Sometimes  mistakes  are  crimes,  and  he  who 
through  unpardonable  rashness  commits  them,  should 
not  escape  'umvhipped  of  justice.'  When  a  man  in 
the  discharge  of  that  which  he  deemed  a  duty,  becomes 
aware  that  unintentionally  he  has  perpetrated  a  great 
wrong,  can  he  parley  with  pride,  or  dally,  because  the 
haunting  ghost  of  consistency  waves  him  back  from 


BY  AUGUSTA  EVANS  WILSON.  187 

the  path  of  a  humiliating  reparation  ?  Error  is  easy, 
confession  galling  ;  and  stepping  down  from  the  cen- 
sor's seat  to  share  the  mortification  of  the  pillory,  is  at 
all  times  a  peculiarly  painful  reverse  ;  hence,  powerful 
indeed  must  be  the  conviction  which  impels  a  man 
who  prided  himself  on  his  legal  astuteness,  to  come 
boldly  into  this  sacred  confessional  of  truth  and  justice, 
and  plead  for  absolution  from  a  stupendous  mistake 
Two  years  ago,  I  became  General  Darrington's  attorney, 
and  when  his  tragic  death  occurred  in  October  last, 
my  professional  relations,  as  well  as  lifelong  friendship, 
incited  me  to  the  prompt  apprehension  of  the  person 
who  had  murdered  him.  After  a  careful  and  appar 
ently  exhaustive  examination  of  the  authenticated 
facts,  I  was  convinced  that  they  pointed  only  in  one 
direction  ;  and  in  that  belief,  I  demanded  and  pro- 
cured the  arrest  of  the  prisoner.  For  her  imprison- 
ment, her  presence  here  to-day,  her  awful  peril,  I  hold 
myself  responsible  ;  and  now,  gentlemen  of  the  jury,  I 
ask  you  as  men  having  hearts  of  flesh,  and  all  the 
honorable  instincts  of  manhood,  which  alone  could 
constitute  you  worthy  umpires  in  this  issue  of  life  or 
death,  do  you,  can  you  wonder  that  regret  sits  at  my 
ear,  chanting  mournful  dirges,  and  remorse  like  a 
harpy  fastens  her  talons  in  my  soul,  when  I  tell  you, 
that  I  have  committed  a  blunder  so  frightful,  that  it 
borders  on  a  crime  as  heinous  as  that  for  which  my 
victim  stands  arraigned  ?  Wise  was  the  spirit  of  a  tra- 
ditional statute,  which  decreed  that  the  author  of  a  false 
accusation  should  pay  the  penalty  designed  for  the  ac- 
cused; and  just  indeed  would  be  the  retribution,  that 
imposed  on  me  the  suffering  I  have  entailed  on  her. 

"  Acknowledging  the  error  into  which  undue  haste 
betrayed  me,  yet  confident  that  divine  justice,  to  whom 
I  have  sworn  allegiance,  has  recalled  me  from  a  false 
path  to  one  that  I  can  now  tread  with  absolute  cer- 
tainty of  success,  I  come  to-day  into  this,  her  sacred 
temple,  lay  my  hand  on  her  inviolate  altar,  and  claim- 
ing the  approval  of  her  officiating  high-priest,  his 
Honor,  appeal  to  you,  gentlemen  of  the  jury,  to  give 
me  your  hearty  co-operation  in  my  effort  to  repair  a 
foul  wrong,  by  vindicating  innocence. 

"  Professors  of  opthalmology  in  a  diagnosis  of  optical 
diseases,  tell  us  of  a  symptom  of  infirmity  which  they 


1 88  THE  TRIAL  OF  BERYL. 

call  pseudoblepsis,  or  'false  sight'.  Legal  vision  ex- 
hibits, now  and  then,  a  corresponding  phase  of  uncon- 
scious perversion  of  sight,  whereby  objects  are  per- 
ceived that  do  not  exist,  and  objects  present  become 
transformed,  distorted  ;  and  such  an  instance  of  exag- 
gerated metamorphopsia  is  presented  to-day,  in  the 
perverted  vision  of  the  prosecution.  In  the  incipiency 
of  this  case,  prior  to,  and  during  the  preliminary  ex- 
amination held  in  October  last,  I  appeared  in  conjunc- 
tion with  Mr.  Wolverton,  as  assistant  counsel  in  the 
prosecution,  represented  by  the  Honorable  Mr.  Church- 
ill, District  Solicitor  ;  the  object  of  said  prosecution 
being  the  conviction  of  the  prisoner,  who  was  held  as 
guilty  of  General  Darrington's  death.  Subsequent  re- 
flection and  search  necessitated  an  abandonment  of 
views  that  could  alone  justify  such  a  position ;  and 
after  consultation  with  my  colleagues  I  withdrew ;  not 
from  the  prosecution  of  the  real  criminal,  to  the  dis- 
covery and  conviction  of  whom  I  shall  dedicate  every 
energy  of  my  nature,  but  from  the  pursuit  of  one  most 
unjustly  accused.  Anomalous  as  is  my  attitude,  the 
dictates  of  conscience,  reason,  heart,  force  me  into  it ; 
and  because  I  am  the  implacable  prosecutor  of  General 
Darrington's  murderer,  1  come  to  plead  in  defence  of  the 
prisoner,  whom  I  hold  guiltless  of.  the  crime,  innocent 
of  the  charge  in  the  indictment.  In  the  supreme  hour 
of  her  isolation,  she  has  invoked  only  one  witness,  and 
may  that  witness  the  God  above  us,  the  God  of  justice, 
the  God  of  innocence,  grant  me  the  inspiration,  and 
nerve  my  arm  to  snatch  her  from  peril,  and  trium- 
phantly vindicate  the  purity  of  her  noble  heart  and 
life." 

Remembering  the  important  evidence  which  he  had 
furnished  to  the  prosecution,  only  a  few  hours  previous, 
when  on  the  witness  stand,  people  looked  at  one  an- 
other questioningly;  doubling  the  testimony  of  their 
own  senses ;  and  vox  populi  was  not  inaptly  expressed 
by  the  whispered  ejaculation  of  Bedney  to  Dyce. 

"  Judgment  day  must  be  breaking  !  Mars  Lennox 
is  done  turned  a  double  summersett,  and  lit  plum  over 
on  t'other  side !  It's  about  ekal  to  a  spavinned,  ring- 
boned,  hamstrung,  hobbled  horse  clearin'  a  ten-rail 
fence  !  He  jumps  so  beautiful,  I  am  afeered  he  won't 
stay  whar  he  lit !  " 


BY  A UGUSTA  E VANS  WILSON.  1 89 

Comprehending  all  that  this  public  recantation  had 
cost  a  proud  man,  jealous  of  his  reputation  for  pro- 
fessional tact  and  skill,  as  well  as  for  individual  acu- 
men, Beryl  began  to  realize  the  depth  and  fervor  of  the 
love  that  prompted  it ;  and  the  merciless  ordeal  to 
which  he  would  subject  her.  Inflicting  upon  himself 
the  smarting  sting  of  the  keenest  possible  humiliation, 
could  she  hope  that  in  the  attainment  of  his  aim  he 
would  spare  her  ?  If  she  threw  herself  even  now  upon 
his  mercy,  would  he  grant  to  her  that  which  he  had 
denied  hemself  ? 

Dreading  the  consequences  of  even  a  moment's  delay, 
she  rose,  and  a  hot  flush  crimsoned  her  cheeks,  as  she 
looked  up  at  the  Judge. 

"  Is  it  my  privilege  to  decide  who  shall  defend  me  ? 
Have  I  now  the  right  to  accept  or  reject  proffered 
aid  ? " 

"The  law  grants  you  that  privilege;  secures  you 
that  right." 

"Then  I  decline  the  services  of  the  counsel  who 
offers  to  plead  in  my  defence.  I  wish  no  human  voice 
raised  in  my  behalf;  and  having  made  my  statement 
in  my  own  defence,  I  commit  my  cause  to  the  hands  of 
my  God." 

For  a  moment  her  eyes  dwelt  upon  the  lawyer's,  and 
as  she  resumed  her  seat,  she  saw  the  spark  in  their 
blue  depths  leap  into  a  flame.  Advancing  a  few  steps, 
his  handsome  face  aglow,  his  voice  rang  like  a  bugle 
call : 

"  May  it  please  your  Honor  :  Anomalous  conditions 
sanction,  necessitate  most  anomalous  procedure,  where 
the  goal  sought  is  simple  truth  and  justice  ;  and  since 
the  prisoner  prefers  to  rest  her  cause,  I  come  to  this 
bar  as  Amicus  Curia,  and  appeal  for  permission  to 
plead  in  behalf  of  my  clients,  truth,  and  justice,  who 
hold  me  in  perpetual  retainment.  In  prosecution  of 
the  real  criminal,  in  order  to  unravel  the  curiously 
knitted  web,  and  bring  the  culprit  to  summary  punish- 
ment, I  ask  you,  gentlemen  of  the  jury,  to  ponder  dispas- 
sionately the  theory  I  have  now  the  honor  to  submit 
to  your  scrutiny. 

"The  prisoner,  whom  I  regard  as  the  victim  of  my 
culpable  haste  and  deplorably  distorted  vision,  is  as 
innocent  of  General  Darrington's  murder  as  you  or  I ; 


190  THE  TRIAL  OF  BERYL. 

but  I  charge,  that  while  having  no  complicity  in  that 
awful  deed,  she  is  nevertheless  perfectly  aware  of  the 
name  of  the  person  \vho  committed  it.  \$Q\. pariicfps 
criminis,  neither  consenting  to,  aiding,  abetting  nor 
even  acquainted  with  the  fact  of  the  crime,  until  ac- 
cused of  its  perpetration  ;  yet  at  this  moment  in  pos- 
session of  the  only  clue  which  will  enable  justice  to 
seize  the  murderer.  Conscious  of  her  innocence,  she 
braves  peril  that  would  chill  the  blood  of  men>  and 
extort  almost  any  secret ;  and  shall  I  tell  you  the 
reason  ?  Shall  I  give  you  the  key  to  an  enigma  which 
she  knows  means  death? 

"  Gentlemen  of  the  jury,  is  there  any  sacrifice  so 
tremendous,  any  anguish  so  keen,  any  shame  so  dread- 
ful, any  fate  so  overwhelmingly  terrible  as  to  transcend 
the  endurance,  or  crush  the  power  of  a  woman's  love  ? 
Under  this  invincible  inspiration,  when  danger  threat- 
ens her  idol,  she  knows  no  self  ;  disgrace,  death  affright, 
her  not ;  she  extends  her  arms  to  arrest  every  approach, 
offers  her  own  breast  as  a  shield  against  darts,  bullets, 
s  vord  thrusts,  and  counts  it  a  privilege  to  lay  down  life 
in  defence  of  that  idol.  O !  loyalty  supreme,  sublime, 
immortal !  thy  name  is  woman's  love. 

"  All  along  the  march  of  humanity,  where  centuries 
have  trailed  their  dust,  traditions  gleam  like  monu- 
ments to  attest  the  victory  of  this  immemorial 
potency,  female  fidelity;  and  when  we  of  the  nine- 
teenth century  seek  the  noblest,  grandest  type  of 
merely  human  self-abnegation,  that  laid  down  a  pure 
and  happy  life,  to  prolong  that  of  a  beloved  object,  we 
look  back  to  the  lovely  image  of  that  fair  Greek 
woman,  who,  when  the  parents  of  the  man  she  loved 
refused  to  give  their  lives  to  save  their  son,  summoned 
death  to  accept  her  as  a  willing  victim  ;  and  deeming 
it  a  privilege,  went  down  triumphantly  into  the  grave. 
Sustained,  exalted  by  this  most  powerful  passion  that 
can  animate  and  possess  a  human  soul,  the  prisoner 
stands  a  pure,  voluntary,  self-devoted  victim  ;  defying 
the  terrors  of  the  law,  consenting  to  condemnation — 
surrendering  to  an  ignominious  death,  in  order  to  save 
the  life  of  the  man  she  loves. 

"  Grand  and  beautiful  as  is  the  spectacle  of  her  calm 
mournful  heroism,  I  ask  you,  as  men  capable  of  appre- 
ciating her  noble  self-immolation,  can  you  permit  the 


BY  AUGUSTA  EVANS  WILSON.  191 

consummation  of  this  sacrifice  ?  Will  you,  dare  you, 
selected,  appointed,  dedicated  by  solemn  oaths  to  ad- 
minister justice,  prove  so  recreant  to  your  holy  trust 
as  to  aid,  abet,  become  accessories  to,  and  responsible 
for  the  murder  of  the  prisoner,  by  accepting  a  stainless 
victim,  to  appease  that  violated  law  which  only  the 
blood  of  the  guilty  can  ever  satisfy  ? 

"  In  order  to  avert  so  foul  a  blot  on  the  escutcheon 
of  our  State  judiciary,  in  order  to  protect  innocence 
from  being  slaughtered,  and  supremely  in  order  to 
track  and  bring  to  summary  punishment  the  criminal 
who  robbed  and  murdered  General  Dariington,  I  now 
desire,  and  request,  that  your  Honor  will  permit  me  to 
cross-examine  the  prisoner  on  the  statement  she  has 
offered  in  defence." 

"  In  making  that  request,  counsel  must  be  aware 
that  it  is  one  of  the  statutory  provisions  of  safety  to 
the  accused,  whom  the  law  holds  innocent  until 
proved  guilty,  that  no  coercion  can  be  employed  to 
extort  answers.  It  is,  however,  the  desire  of  the 
court,  and  certainly  must  accrue  to  the  benefit  of  the 
prisoner,  that  she  should  take  the  witness  stand  in  her 
own  defense." 

For  a  moment  there  was  neither  sound  nor  motion. 

"  Will  the  prisoner  answer  such  questions  as  in  the 
opinion  of  the  Court  are  designed  solely  to  establish 
her  innocence  ?  If  so,  she  will  take  the  stand." 

With  a  sudden  passionate  movement  at  variance 
with  her  demeanor  throughout  the  trial,  she  threw  up 
her  clasped  hands,  gazed  at  them,  then  pressed  them 
ring  downward  as  a  seal  upon  her  lips  ;  and  after  an 
instant,  answered  slowly  : 

"  Now  and  henceforth,  I  decline  to  answer  any  and 
all  questions.  I  am  innocent,  entirely  innocent.  The 
burden  of  proof  res's  upon  my  accusers." 

As  Mr.  Dunbar  watched  her,  noted  the  scarlet  spots 
burning  on  her  cheeks,  the  strange  expression  of  her 
eyes  that  glowed  with  unnatural  lustre,  a  scowl  dark- 
ened his  face ;  a  cruel  smile  curved  his  lips,  and 
made  his  teeth  gleam.  Was  it  worth  while  10  save 
her  against  her  will;  to  preserve  the  heart  he  coveted, 
for  the  vile  miscreant  to  whom  she  had  irrevocably 
given  it  ?  With  an  upward  movement  of  his  noble 
head,  like  the  impatient  toss  of  a  horse  intolerant  of 


1 92  THE  TRIAL  OF  BERYL. 

curb,  he  stepped  back  close  to  the  girl,  and  stood  with 
his  hand  on  the  back  of  her  chair. 

"In  view  of  this  palpable  evasion  of  justice  through 
obstinate  non  responsion,  will  it  please  the  Court  to 
overrule  the  prisoner's  objection  ?  " 

Several  moments  elapsed  before  Judge  Parkman  re- 
plied, and  he  gnawed  the  end  of  his  grizzled  mustache, 
debating  tfie  consequences  of  dishonoring  precedent — 
that  fetich  of  the  Bench. 

"  The  Court  cannot  so  rule.  The  prisoner  has  de- 
cided upon  the  line  of  defence,  as  is  her  inalienable 
right ;  and  since  she  persistently  assumes  that  respon- 
bility,  the  Court  must  sustain  her  decision." 

The  expression  of  infinite  and  intense  relief  that  stole 
over  the  girl's  countenance,  was  noted  by  both  judge 
and  jury,  as  she  sank  back  wearily  in  her  chair,  like 
one  lifted  from  some  rack  of  torture.  Resting  thus, 
her  shoulder  pressed  against  the  hand  that  lay  on  the 
top  of  the  chair,  but  he  did  not  move  a  finger;  and 
some  magnetic  influence  drew  her  gaze  to  meet  his. 
He  felt  the  tremor  that  crept  over  her,  understood  the 
mute  appeal,  the  prayer  for  forbearance  that  made  her 
mournful  gray  eyes  so  eloquent,  and  a  sinister  smile 
distorted  his  handsome  mouth. 

"  The  spirit  and  intent  of  the  law,  the  usages  of 
criminal  practice,  above  all,  hoary  precedent,  before 
which  we  bow,  each  and  all  sanction  your  Honor's 
ruling  ;  and  yet  despite  everything,  the  end  I  sought 
is  already  attained.  Is  not  the  refusal  of  the  prisoner 
proof  positive,  '  confirmation  strong  as  proofs  of  Holy 
Writ '  of  the  truth  of  my  theory  ?  With  jealous  dread 
she  seeks  to  lock  the  clue  in  her  faithful  heart,  court- 
ing even  the  coffin,  that  would  keep  it  safe  through  all 
the  storms  of  time.  Impregnable  in  her  citadel  of 
silence,  with  the  cohorts  of  Codes  to  protect  her  from 
escalade  and  assault,  will  the  guardians  of  justice  have 
obeyed  her  solemn  commands  when  they  permit  the 
prisoner  to  light  the  funeral  prye  where  she  elects  to 
throw  herself — a  vicarious  sacrifice  for  another's  sins  ? 
For  a  nature  so  exalted,  the  Providence  who  endowed 
it  has  decreed  a  nobler  fate ;  and  by  His  help,  and 
that  of  your  twelve  consciences,  I  purpose  to  save  her 
from  a  species  of  suicide,  and  to  consign  to  the  hang- 
man the  real  criminal.  The  evidence  now  submitted, 


BY  AUGUSTA  Et'ANS  WILSON.  193 

will  be  furnished  by  the  testimony  of  witnesses  who 
at  my  request,  have  been  kept  without  the  hearing  of 
the  Court." 

He  left  Beryl's  chair,  and  once  more  approached  the 
jury. 

"  Isam  Hornbuckle." 

A  negro  man,  apparently  sixty  years  old,  limped 
into  the  witness  stand,  and  having  been  sworn,  stood 
leaning  on  his  stick,  staring  uneasily  about  him. 

"  What  is  your  name  ?  " 

"  Isam  Clay  Hornbuckle." 

"  Where  do  you  live  ?  " 

"  Nigh  the  forks  of  the  road,  close  to  'Possum 
Ridge." 

"  How  far  from  town  ?  " 

"  By  short  cuts  I  make  it  about  ten  miles  ;  but  the 
gang  what  works  the  road  calls  it  twelve." 

"  Have  you  a  farm  there  ?  " 

"  Yes'ir.  A  pretty  tolerble  farm ;  a  cornfield  and 
potato  patch  and  gyarden,  and  parsture  for  my  hogs, 
and  oxin,  and  a  slipe  of  woods  for  my  pine  knots." 

"  What  is  your  business  ?  " 

"  Tryin'  to  make  a  livin',  and  it  keeps  me  bizzy,  for 
lans  is  poor,  and  seasons  is  most  ginerally  agin 
crops." 

"  How  long  have  you  been  farming  ?  " 

"  Only  sence  I  got  mashed  up  more  'an  a  year  ago 
on  the  railroad." 

"  In  what  capacity  did  you  serve,  when  working  on 
the  railroad  ?  " 

"  I  was  fireman  under  ingeneer  Walker  on  the  loky- 
motive  'Gin'l  Borygyard,'  what  most  ginerally 
hauled  Freight  No.  2.  The  ingines  goes  now  by 
numbers,  but  we  ole  hands  called  our'n  always  '  Bory- 
gyard. ' " 

"You  were  crippled  in  a  collision  between  two 
freight  trains  ?  " 

"  Yes'ir ;  but  t'other  train  was  the  cause  of  the — " 

"  Never  mind  the  cause  of  the  accident.  You 
moved  out  to  '  Possum  Ridge ;  can  you  remember 
exactly  when  you  were  last  in  town  ?  " 

"To  be  shore!  I  know  ezactly,  'cause  it  was  the 
day  my  ole  'oman's  step-father's  granny's  funeral 
sarmont  was  preached ;  and  that  was  on  a  Thurs- 
'3 


194  THE  TRIAL  OF  BERYL. 

day,  twenty-sixth  of  October,  an'  I  come  up  to  'tend 
it." 

"  Is  it  not  customary  to  preach  the  funeral  sermons 
on  Sunday  ? " 

"  Most  ginerally,  Boss,  it  are  ;  but  you  see  Bre'r 
Green,  what  was  to  preach  the  ole  'oman's  sarmont, 
had  a  big  baptizin'  for  two  Sundays  han'  runnin',  and 
he  was  gwine  to  Boston  for  a  spell,  on  the  next  comin' 
Saddy,  so  bein'  as  our  time  belonks  to  us  now,  we  was 
free  to  'pint  a  week  day." 

"  You  are  positive  it  was  the  twenty-sixth  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes'ir  ;  plum  postiv.  The  day  was  norated 
from  all  the  baptiss  churches,  so  as  the  kinfolks  could 
gether  from  fur  and  nigh." 

"  At  what  hour  on  Thursday  was  the  funeral  sermon 
preached  ? " 

"  Four  o'clock  sharp." 

"  Where  did  you  stay  while  in  town  ?  " 

"  With  my  son  Ducaleyon,  who  keeps  a  barber-shop 
on  Main  Street." 

"  When  did  you  return  home?  " 

"  I  started  before  day,  Friday  mornin',  as  soon  as  the 
rain  hilt  up." 

"  At  what  hour,  do  you  think  ?  " 

"  The  town  clock  was  a  strikin'  two,  jes  as  I  passed 
the  express  office,  at  the  station." 

"Now,  Isam,  tell  the  Court  whom  you  saw,  and 
what  happened  ;  and  be  very  careful  in  all  you  say,  re- 
membering you  are  on  your  oath." 

"  I  was  atoting  a  bundle  so — slung  on  to  a  stick,  and 
it  galded  my  shoulder,  'cause  amongst  a  whole  passel 
of  plunder  I  had  bought  ther  was  a  bag  of  shot  inside, 
what  had  slewed  'round  oft  the  balance,  and  I  sot 
down  close  to  a  lamp-post  nigh  the  station,  to  shift 
the  heft  of  the  shot  bag.  Whilst  I  were  a  squatting, 
tying  up  my  bundle,  I  heerd  all  of  a  sudden t — some- 
body runnin',  brip — brap — !  and  up  kem  a  man  from 
round  the  corner  of  the  station-house,  a  runnin'  full 
tilt ;  and  he  would  a  run  over  me.  but  I  grabbed  my 
bundle  and  riz  up.  Sez  I :  '  Hello  !  what's  to  pay  ? ' 
He  was  most  out  of  breath,  but  sez  he  :  'Is  the  train 
in  yet  ? '  Sez  I  :  '  There  ain't  no  train  till  daylight, 
'cepting  k  be  the  through  freight.'  Then  he  axed  me  : 
'  When  is  that  due  ? '  and  I  tole  him  :  '  Pretty  soon,  I 


BY  AUGUSTA  EVANS  WILSON.  195 

reckon,  but  it  don't  stop  here  :  if  only  slows  up  at  the 
water  tank,  whar  it  blows  for  the  bridge.'  Sez  he  : 
'  How  fur  is  that  bridge  ? '  Sez  I  :  '  Only  a  short  piece 
clown  the  track,  after  you  pass  the  tank.'  He  tuck  a 
long  breath,  and  kinder  whistled,  and  with  that  he 
turned  and  heeled  it  down  the  middle  of  the  track.  I 
thought  it  mighty  curus,  and  my  mind  misgive  me 
thar  was  somethin'  crooked  ;  but  I  always  pinteclly 
dodges;  '  lie-lows  to  ketch  meddlers,' and  1  went  on 
my  way.  When  I  got  nigh  the  next  corner  whar  I 
had  to  turn  to  cross  the  river,  I  looked  back  and  I  seen 
a  'oman  standin'  on  the  track,  in  front  of  the  station- 
house  ;  but  I  parsed  on,  and  soon  kem  to  the  bridge 
(not  the  railroad  bridge),  Boss.  I  had  got  on  the  top 
of  the  hill  to  the  left  of  the  Pentenchry,  when  I 
hearn  ole  '  Bory  '  blow.  You  see  I  knowed  the  run n in' 
of  the  kyars,  'cause  that  through  freight  was  my  ole 
stormpin-ground,  and  I  love  the  sound  of  that  ingine's 
whistle  more  'an  I  do  my  gran'childun's  hymn  chunes. 
She  blowed  long  and  vicious  like,  and  I  seen  her 
sparks  fly,  as  she  lit  out  through  town  ;  and  then  I 
footed  it  home." 

"  You  think  the  train  was  on  time  ?" 

"  Bound  to  be  ;  she  never  was  cotched  behind  time, 
not  while  I  stuffed  her  with  coal  and  lightwood  knots. 
She  was  plum  punctchul." 

"  Was  the  lamp  lighted  where  you  tied  your 
bundle?  " 

"Yes'ir,  burnin'  bright." 

"  Tell  the  Court  the  appearance  of  the  man  whom 
you  talked  with." 

Mr.  Dunbar  was  watching  the  beautiful  face  so  dear 
to  him,  and  saw  the  prisoner  lean  forward,  her  lips 
parted,  all  her  soul  in  the  wide,  glowing  eyes  fastened 
on  the  countenance  of  the  witness. 

"  He  was  very  tall  and  wiry,  and  'peared  like  a 
young  man  who  had  parstured  'mongst  wild  oats.  He 
seemed  cut  out  for  a  gintleman,  but  run  to  seed  too 
quick  and  turned  out  nigh  kin  to  a  dead  beat.  One- 
half  of  him  was  hanssum,  'minded  me  mightly  of  that 
stone  head  with  kurly  hair  what  sets  over  the  socly 
fountin  in  the  drug  store,  on  Main  Street.  Oh,  yes'ir, 
one  side  was  too  pretty  for  a  man ;  but  t'other ! 
Fo'  Gawd !  t'other  made  your  teeth  ache,  and  sot  you 


196  THE  TRIAL  OF  BERYL. 

cross-eyed  to  look  at  it.  He  toted  a  awful  brand  to 
be  shore." 

"  What"  do  you  mean  by  one  side  ?  Explain  your- 
self carefully  now." 

"  I  dun'no  as  I  can  'splain'  'cause  I  ain't  never  seed 
nothing  like  it  afore.  One  'zact  half  of  him,  from  his 
hair  to  his  shirt  collar  was  white  and  pretty  like,  I  tell 
you,  but  t'other  side  of  his  face  was  black  as  tar,  and 
his  kurly  hair  was  gone,  and  the  whiskers  on  that  side 
— and  his  eye  was  drapped  down  kinder  so,  and  that 
side  of  his  mouth  sorter  hung,  like  it  was  unpinned, 
this  way.  Mebbee  he  was  born  so,  mebbee  not ;  but 
he  looked  like  he  had  jes  broke  loose  from  the  cunjur 
and  cary'd  his  mark." 

For  one  fleeting  moment,  the  gates  of  heaven  seemed 
thrown  wide,  and  the  glory  of  the  Kingdom  of  Peace 
streamed  down  upon  the  aching  heart  of  the  desolate 
woman.  She  could  recognize  no  dreaded  resemblance 
in  the  photograph  drawn  by  the  witness ;  and  judge, 
jury  and  counsel  who  scrutinized  her  during  the  recital 
of  the  testimony,  were  puzzled  by  the  smile  of  joy  that 
suddenly  flashed  over  her  features,  like  the  radiance  of 
a  lamp  lifted  close  to  some  marble  face,  dim  with 
shadows. 

"  Do  you  think  his  face  indicated  that  he  had  been 
engaged  in  a  difficulty,  in  a  fight!  Was  there  any 
sign  of  blood,  or  anything  that  looked  as  if  he  had 
been  bruised  and  wounded  by  some  heavy  blow  ? " 

"  Naw,  sir.  Didn't  seem  like  sech  bruises  aas  omes 
of  fightin'.  Teared  to  me  he  was  somehow  branded 
like,  and  the  mark  he  toted  was  onnatral." 

"  If  he  had  wished  to  disguise  himself  by  blackening 
one  side  of  his  face,  would  he  not  have  presented  a 
similar  appearance  ? " 

"  Naw,  sir,  not  by  no  manner  of  means.  No  min- 
strel tricks  fotch  him  to  the  pass  he  was  at.  The  hand 
of  the  LORD  must  have  laid  too  heavy  on  him  ;  no 
mortal  wounds  leave  sech  terrifyin'  prints." 

"  How  was  he  dressed  ?  " 

"  Dunno.  My  eyes  never  drapped  below  that  curus 
face  of  his'n." 

"  Was  he  bareheaded  ?  " 

"  Bar  headed  as  when  he  come  into  the  world." 


BY  AUGUSTA  EVANS  WILSON.  197 

"  He  talked  like  a  man  in  desperate  haste,  who  was 
running  to  escape  pursuit  ?  " 

"  He  shorely  did." 

"  Did  you  mention  to  any  person  what  you  have  told 
here  to-day  ?  " 

''I  tole  my  ole  'oman,  and  she  said  she  reckoned  it 
was  a  buth  mark  what  the  man  carryd ;  but  when  1 
seen  him  I  thunk  he  was  conjured." 

"  When  you  heard  that  General  Darrington  had  been 
murdered,  did  you  think  of  this  man  and  his  singular 
behavior  that  night  ?  " 

"  I  never  hearn  of  the  murder  till  Christmas,  'cause 
I  went  down  to  filbert  County  arter  a  yoke  of  steers 
what  a  man  owed  me,  and  thar  I  tuck  sick  and  kep'  my 
bed  for  weeks.  When  I  got  home,  and  hearn  the  talk 
about  the  murder.  I  didn't  know  it  was  the  same  night 
what  I  seen  the  branded  man." 

"  Tell  the  Court  how  your  testimony  was  secured." 

"  It  was  norated  in  all  our  churches  that  a  'ward  was 
offered  for  a  lame  cullud  pusson  of  my  'scription,  and 
Deacon  Nathan  he  cum  down  and  axed  me  what  mis- 
chief I'de  been  a  doin',  that  I  was  wanted  to  answer 
fur.  He  read  me  the  'vertisement,  and  pussuaded  me 
to  go  with  him  to  your  office,  and  you  tuck  me  to  Mr. 
Churchill." 

Mr.  Dunbar  bowed  to  the  District  Solicitor,  who 
rose  and  cross-examined. 

"  Can  you  read  ?  " 

"  Naw,  sir." 

"  Where  is  your  son  Deucalion  ?  '* 

"  Two  days  after  I  left  town  he  went  with  a  '  Love 
and  Charity  'scurshion  up  north,  and  he  liked  it  so 
well  in  Baltymore,  he  staid  thar." 

"  When  Deacon  Nathan  brought  you  up  to  town,  did 
you  know  for  what  purpose  Mr.  Dunbar  wanted  you  ?  " 

"  Naw,  sir." 

"Was  it  not  rather  strange  that  none  of  your  friends 
recognized  the  description  of  you,  published  in  the 
paper  ?  " 

"  Seems  some  of  em  did,  but  felt  kind  of  jub'rus 
'bout  pinting  me  out,  for  human  natur  is  prone  to 
crooked  ways,  and  they  never  hearn  I  perfessed 
sanctification." 


198  THE  TRIAL  OF  BERYL. 

"  Who  told  you  the  prisoner  had  heard  your  conver- 
sation with  the  man  you  met  that  night  ? " 

"  Did  she  hear  it  ?  Then  you  are  the  first  pusson  to 
tell  me." 

"How  long  was  it,  after  you  saw  the  man,  before 
you  heard  the  whistle  of  the  freight  train  ?  " 

"  As  nigh  as  I  kin  rickolect  about  a  half  a  hour,  but 
not  quite." 

"  Was  it  raining  at  all  when  you  saw  the  woman 
standing  on  the  track  ?  " 

"  Naw,  sir.  The  trees  was  dripping  steady,  but  the 
moon  was  shining." 

"  Do  you  know  anything  about  the  statement  made 
by  the  prisoner  ? " 

"  Naw,  sir." 

"  Fritz  Helmetag." 

As  Isam  withdrew,  a  middle-aged  man  took  the 
stand,  and  in  answer  to  Mr.  Dunbar's  questions 
deposed :  "  That  he  was  '  bridge  tender  '  on  the  rail- 
road, and  lived  in  a  cottage  not  far  from  the  water  tank. 
On  the  night  of  the  twenty-sixth  of  October,  he  was 
sitting  up  with  a  sick  wife,  and  remembered  that  being 
feverish,  she  asked  for  some  fresh  water.  He  went 
out  to  draw  some  from  the  well,  and  saw  a  man  stand- 
ing not  far  from  the  bridge.  The  moon  was  behind  a 
row  of  trees,  but  he  noticed  the  man  was  bareheaded, 
and  when  he  called  to  know  what  he  wanted,  he 
walked  back  toward  the  tank.  Five  minutes  later  the 
freight  train  blew,  and  after  it  had  crossed  the  bridge, 
he  went  back  to  his  cottage.  The  man  was  standing 
close  to  the  safety  signal,  a  white  light  fastened  to  an 
iron  stanchion  at  south  end  of  the  bridge,  and  seemed  to 
be  reading  something.  Next  day,  when  he  (witness) 
went  as  usual  to  examine  the  piers  and  under  portions 
of  the  bridge,  he  had  found  the  pipe,  now  in  Mr. 
Dunbar's  possession.  Tramps  so  "often  rested  on  the 
bridge,  and  on  the  shelving  bank  of  the  river  beneath 
it,  that  he  attached  no  importance  to  the  circumstance; 
but  felt  confident  the  pipe  was  left  by  the  man  whom 
he  had  seen,  as  it  was  not  there  the  previous  afternoon; 
and  he  put  it  in  a  pigeon-hole  of  his  desk,  thinking  the 
owner  might  return  to  claim  it.  On  the  same  day,  he 

left  X to  carry  his  wife  to  her  mother,  who  lived 

in  Pennsylvania,  and  was  absent  for  several  weeks. 


8Y  AUGUSTA  EVANS  WILSOK.  199 

Had  never  associated  the  pipe  with  the  murder,  but 
after  talking  with  Mr.  Dunbar,  who  had  found  the  half 
of  an  envelope  near  the  south  end  of  the  biidge,  he  had 
surrendered  it  to  him.  Did  not  see  the  man's  face 
distinctly.  He  looked  tall  and  thin." 

"Here  Mr.  Dunbar  held  up  a  fragment  of  a  long  white 
envelope  such  as  usually  contain  legal  documents,  on 
which  was  written  in  large  letters  "  LAST  WILL" —  and 
underscored  with  red  ink.  Then  he  lifted  a  pipe,  for 
the  inspection  of  the  witness,  who  identified  it  as  the 
one  he  had  found. 

"  As  he  turned  it  slowly,  the  court  and  the  multitude 
saw  only  a  meerschaum  with  a  large  bowl  representing 
a  death's  head,  to  which  was  attached  a  short  mouth- 
piece of  twisted  amber. 

The  golden  gates  of  hope  clashed  suddenly,  and  over 
them  flashed  a  drawn  sword,  as  Beryl  looked  at  the 
familiar  pipe,  which  her  baby  fingers  had  so  often 
strained  to  grasp.  How  well  she  knew  the  ghastly 
ivory  features,  the  sunken  eyeless  sockets — of  that 
veritable  death's  head  ?  "  How  vividly  came  back  the 
day,  when  asleep  in  her  father's  arms,  a  spark  from 
that  grinning  skull  had  fallen  on  her  cheek,  and  she 
awoke  to  find  that  fond  father  bending  in  remorseful 
tenderness  over  her  ?  "  Years  ago,  she  had  reverently 
packed  the  pipe  away,  with  other  articles  belonging  to 
the  dead,  and  ignorant  that  her  mother  had  given  it  to 
Bertie,  she  deemed  it  safe  in  that  sacred  repository. 
Now,  like  the  face  of  Medusa  it  glared  at  her,  and  that 
which  her  father's  lips  had  sanctified,  became  the 
polluted  medium  of  a  retributive  curse  upon  his  devoted 
child.  So  the  Diabolus  ex  macliina,  the  evil  genius  of 
each  human  life  decrees  that  the  most  cruel  cureless 
pangs  are  inflicted  by  the  instruments  we  love  best. 

Watching  for  some  sign  of  recognition,  Mr.  Dunbar's 
heart  was  fired  with  jealous  rage,  as  he  marked  the 
swift  change  of  the  prisoner's  contenance  ;  the  vanish- 
ing of  the  gleam  of  hope,  the  gloomy  desperation  that 
succeeded.  The  beautiful  black  brows  met  in  a  spasm 
of  pain  over  eyes  that  stared  at  an  abyss  of  ruin  ;  her 
lips  whitened,  she  wrung  her  hands  unconsciously  ;  and 
then,  as  if  numb  with  horror,  she  leaned  back  in  her 
chair,  and  her  chin  sank  until  it  touched  the  black 
ribbon  at  her  throat.  When  after  a  while  she  rallied, 


20O  THE  TRIAL  OF  BERYL. 

•* 

and  forced  herself  to  listen,  a  pleasant-faced  young 
man  was  on  the  witness  stand. 

"  My  name  is  Edgar  Jennings,  and  I  live  at  T , 

in  Pennsylvania.     I  am  ticket  agent  at  that  point,  of 

railway.     One  day,  about  the  last  of  October  (I 

think  it  was  on  Monday),  I  was  sitting  in  my  office 
when  a  man  came  in,  and  asked  if  I  could  sell  him  a 
ticket  to  St.  Paul.  I  told  him  I  only  had  tickets  as  far 
as  Chicago,  via  Cincinnati.  He  bought  one  to  Cincin- 
nati and  asked  how  soon  he  could  go  on.  I  told  him 
the  train  from  the  east  was  due  in  a  few  minutes. 
When  he  paid  for  his  ticket  he  gave  me  a  twenty- 
dollar  gold  piece,  and  his  hand  shook  so,  he  dropped 
another  piece  of  the  same  value  on  the  floor.  His 
appearance  was  so  remarkable  I  noticed  him  particu- 
larly. He  was  a  man  about  my  age,  very  tall  and 
finely  made,  but  one  half  of  his  face  was  black,  or 
rather  very  dark  blue,  and  he  wore  a  handkerchief 
bandage-fashion  across  it.  His  left  eye  was  drawn 
down,  this  way,  and  his  mouth  was  one-sided.  His 
right  eye  was  black,  and  his  hair  was  very  light 
brown.  He  wore  a  close-fitting  wool  hat,  that  flapped 
down,  and  his  clothes  were  seal-brown  in  color,  but 
much  worn,  and  evidently  old.  I  asked  him  where  he 
lived,  and  he  said  he  was  a  stranger  going  West,  on  a 
pioneering  tour.  Then  I  asked  what  ailed  his  face, 
and  he  pulled  the  handkerchief  over  his  left  eye,  and 
said  he  was  partly  paralyzed  from  an  accident.  Just 

then,  the  eastern  train  blew  for  T .     He  said  he 

wanted  some  cigars  or  a  pipe,  as  he  had  lost  his  own 
on  the  way,  and  wondered  if  he  would  have  time  to  go 
out  and  buy  some.  I  told  him  no;  but  that  he  could 
have  a  couple  of  cigars  from  my  box.  He  thanked 
me,  and  took  two,  laying  down  a  silver  dime  on  top  of 
the  box.  He  put  his  hand  in  the  inside  pocket  of  his 
coat,  and  pulled  out  an  empty  envelope,  twisted  it,  lit 
it  by  the  coal  fire  in  the  grate,  and  lighted  his  cigar. 
The  train  rolled  into  the  station ;  he  passed  out,  and  I 
saw  him  jump  aboard  the  front  passenger  coach.  He 
had  thrown  the  paper,  as  he  thought,  into  the  fire,  but 
it  slipped  off  the  grate,  fell  just  inside  the  fender,  and 
the  flame  went  out.  There  was  something  so  very 
peculiar  in  his  looks  and  manner,  that  I  thought  there 
was  some  mystery  about  his  movements.  I  picked  up 


BY  AUGUSTA  EVANS  WILSOA?.  2OI 

thex  paper,  saw  the  writing  on  it,  and  locked  it  up  in 
my  cash  drawer.  He  had  evidently  been  a  very  hand- 
some man,  before  his  'accident,'  but  he  had  a  jaded, 
worried,  wretched  look.  When  a  detective  from  Balti- 
more interviewed  me,  I  told  him  all  I  knew,  and  gave 
him  the  paper." 

Again  Mr.  Dunbar  drew  closer  to  the  jury,  held  up 
the  former  fragment  of  envelope,  and  then  took  from 
his  pocket  a  second  piece.  Jagged  edges  fitted  into 
each  other,  and  he  lifted  for  the  inspection  of  hundreds 
of  eyes,  the  long  envelope  marked  and  underscored  : — 
"  LAST  WILL  AND  TESTAMENT  OF  ROBERT  LUKE  DAR- 
RINGTON."  The  lower  edge  of  the  paper  was  at  one 
corner  brown,  scorched,  somewhat  burned. 

"  Lucullus  Grantlin." 

An  elderly  man  of  noble  presence  advanced,  and 
Mr.  Dunbar  met  and  shook  hands  with  him,  accom- 
panying him  almost  to  the  stand.  At  sight  of  his 
white  head,  and  flowing  silvery  beard,  Beryl's  heart 
almost  ceased  its  pulsation.  If,  during  her  last  illness 
her  mother  had  acquainted  him  with  their  family 
history,  then  indeed  all  was  lost.  It  was  as  impossible 
to  reach  him  and  implore  his  silence,  as  though  the 
ocean  rocked  between  them  ;  and  how  would  he  in- 
terpret the  pleading  gaze  she  fixed  upon  his  face  ? 
The  imminence,  of  the  danger,  vanquished  every 
scruple,  strangled  her  pride.  She  caught  Mr.  Dun- 
bar's  eye,  beckoned  him  to  approach. 

When  he  stood  before  her,  she  put  out  her  hand, 
seized  one  of  his,  and  drew  him  down  until  his  black 
head  almost  touched  hers.  She  placed  her  lips  close 
to  his  ear,  and  whispered : 

"  For  God's  sake  spare  the  secrets  of  a  death-bed. 
Be  merciful  to  me  now;  oh!  I  entreat  you — do  not 
drag  my  mother  from  her  grave !  Do  not  question  Dr. 
Grantlin." 

She  locked  her  icy  hands  around  his,  pressing  it 
convulsively.  Turning,  he  laid  his  lips  close  to  the 
silky  fold  of  hair  that  had  fallen  across  her  ear  : 

"  If  I  dismiss  this  witness,  will  you  tell  me  the 
truth?  Will  you  give  me  the  name  of  the  man  whom 
I  am  hunting?  Will  you  confess  all  to  me?" 

"  I  have  no  sins  to  confess.  I  have  made  my  last 
statement.  If  you  laid  my  coffin  at  my  feet,  I  should 


202  THE  TRIAL  OF  BERYL. 

only  say   I   am   innocent ;  I   would    tell   you   nothing 
more." 

"Then  his  life  is  so  precious,  you  are  resolved  to 
die  rather  than  trust  me  ?  " 

She  dropped  his  hand,  and  leaned  back  in  her  chair 
closing  her  eyes.  When  she  opened  them,  Doctoi 
Grantlin  was  speaking: 

"  I  am  on  my  way  to  Havana,  with  an  invalid 
daughter,  and  stopped  here  last  night,  at  the  requesi 
of  Mr.  Dunbar." 

"  Please  state  all  that  you  know  of  the  prisoner,  and 
of  the  circumstances  which  induced  her  to  visit 
X ." 

"I  first  saw  the  prisoner  in  August  last,  when  she 
summoned  me  to  see  her  mother  who  was  suffering 
from  an  attack  of  fever.  I  discovered  that  she  was  in 
a  dangerous  condition  in  consequence  of  an  aneurism 
located  in  the  carotid  artery,  and  when  she  had  been 
relieved  of  malarial  fever,  I  told  both  mother  and 
daughter  that  an  operation  was  necessary,  to  remove 
the  aneurism.  Soon  after,  I  left  the  city  for  a  month, 
and  on  my  return  the  daughter  again  called  me  in.  I 
advised  that  without  delay  the  patient  should  be  re- 
moved to  the  hospital,  where  a  surgeon — a  specialist — • 
could  perform  the  operation.  To  this  the  young  lady 
objected,  on  the  ground  that  she  could  not  assist  in 
nursing,  if  her  mother  entered  the  hospital,  and  she 
would  not  consent  to  the  separation.  She  asked  what 
amount  would  be  required  to  secure  at  home  the 
services  of  the  surgeon,  a  trained  nurse,  and  the  sub- 
sequent treatment ;  and  I  told  her  I  thought  a  hundred 
dollars  would  cover  all  incidentals,  and  secure  one  of 
the  most  skilful  surgeons  in  the  city.  I  continued  from 
time  to  time  to  see  the  mother,  and  administered  such 
medicines  as  I  deemed  necessary  to  invigorate  and  tone 
up  the  patient's  system  for  the  operation.  One  day  in 
October,  the  young  lady  came  to  pay  me  for  some 
prescriptions,  and  asked  if  a  few  weeks'  delay  would 
enhance  the  danger  of  the  operation.  I  assured  her 
it  was  important  to  lose  no  time,  and  urged  her  to 
arrange  matters  so  as  to  remove  the  patient  to  the 
hospital  as  soon  as  possible,  offering  to  procure  her 
admission.  She  showed  great  distress,  and  informed 
me  that  she  hoped  to  receive  very  soon  a  considerable 


BY  AUGUSTA  EVANS  WILSON.  203 

sum  of  money,  from  some  artistic  designs  that  she  felt 
sure  would  secure  the  prize.  A  week  later  she  came 
again,  and  I  gave  her  a  prescription  to  allay  her 
mother's  nervousness.  Then,  with  much  agitation, 
she  told  me  that  she  was  going  South  by  the  night  ex- 
press, to  seek  assistance  from  her  mother's  father,  who 
was  a  man  of  wealth,  but  had  disowned  Mrs.  Brentano 
on  account  of  her  marriage.  She  asked  for  a  written 
statement  of  the  patient's  condition,  and  the  absolute 
necessity  of  the  operation.  I  wrote  it,  and  as  she 
stood  looking  at  the  paper,  she  said : 

"  '  Doctor,  do  you  believe  in  an  Ahnung  ?  '  I  said 
'  A  what  ?  '  She  answered  slowly  and  solemnly  : 
"  An  Ahnung —  presentiment  ?  I  have  a  crushing  pre- 
sentiment that  trouble  will  come  to  me,  if  I  leave 
mother ;  and  yet  she  entreats,  commands  me  to  go 
South.  It  is  my  duty  to  obey  her,  but  the  errand  is  so 
humiliating  I  shrink,  I  dread  it.  I  shall  not  be  long 
away,  and  meanwhile  do  please  be  so  kind  as  to  see 
her,  and  cheer  her  up.  If  her  father  refuses  to  give 
me  the  one  hundred  dollars,  I  will  take  her  to  the 
hospital  when  I  return.'  I  walked  to  the  door  with 
her,  and  her  last  words  were :  '  Doctor,  I  trust  my 
mother  to  you;  don't  let  her  suffer.'  I  have  never 
seen  her  again,  until  I  entered  this  room.  I  visited 
Mrs.  Brentano  several  times,  but  she  grew  worse  very 
rapidly.  One  night  the  ensuing  week,  my  bell  was 
rung  at  twelve  o'clock,  and  a  woman  gave  me  this 
note,  which  was  written  by  the  prisoner  immediately 
after  her  arrest,  and  which  enclosed  a  second,  ad- 
dressed to  her  mother." 

As  he  read  aloud  the  concluding  lines  invoking  the 
mother's  prayers,  the  doctor's  voice  trembled.  He 
took  off  his  spectacles,  wiped  them,  and  resumed  : 

"  I  was  shocked  and  distressed  beyond  expression, 
for  I  could  no  more  connect  the  idea  of  crime  with 
that  beautiful,  noble  souled  girl,  than  with  my  own 
sinless  daughter;  and  I  reproached  myself  then,  and 
doubly  condemn  myself  now,  that  I  did  not  lend  her 
the  money.  All  that  was  possible  to  alleviate  the 
suffering  of  that  mother,  I  did  most  faithfully.  Under 
my  personal  superintendence  she  was  made  comfort- 
able in  the  hospital ;  and  I  stood  by  her  side  when 
Doctor operated  on  the  aneurism  ;  but  her  im- 


204  THE  TRIAL  OF  BERYL. 

paired  constitution  could  not  bear  the  strain,  and  she 
sank  rapidly.  She  was  delirious,  and  never  knew  why 
her  daughter  was  detained  ;  because  I  withheld  the 
note.  Just  before  the  end  came,  her  mind  cleared, 
and  she  wrote  a  few  lines  which  I  sent  to  the  prisoner. 
From  all  that  I  know  of  Miss  Brentano,  I  feel  con- 
strained to  say,  she  impressed  me  as  one  of  the  purest, 
noblest,  and  most  admirable  characters  I  have  ever 
met.  She  supported  her  mother  and  herself  by  her 
pencil,  and  a  more  refined,  sensitive  woman,  a  more 
tenderly  devoted  daughter,  I  have  yet  to  meet/' 

"  Docs  your  acquaintance  with  the  family  suggest 
any  third  party,  who  would  be  interested  in  General 
Darrington's  will  or  become  a  beneficiary  by  its 
destruction  ?  " 

"  No.  They  seemed  very  isolated  people  ;  those 
two  women  lived  without  any  acquaintances,  as  far  as 
I  know,  and  appeared  proudly  indifferent  to  the  out- 
side world.  I  do  not  think  they  had  any  relatives,  and 
the  only  name  I  heard  Mrs.  Brentano  utter  in  her  last 
illness  was,  '  Ignace,  —  Ignace.'  She  often  spoke  of 
her  'darling,'  and  her  'good  little  girl'." 

"  Did  you  see  a  gentleman  who  visited  the  prisoner  ? 
Did  you  ever  hear  she  had  a  lover  ?  " 

"  I  neither  saw  any  gentleman,  nor  heard  she  had  a 
lover.  In  January,  I  received  a  letter  from  the  pris- 
oner enclosing  an  order  on  S  -  &  E  -  ,  photo- 
graphers of  New  York,  for  the  amount  due  her,  on  a 
certain  design  for  a  Christmas  card,  which  had  re- 
ceived the  Boston  first  prize  of  three  hundred  dollars. 
With  the  permission  of  the  Court,  I  should  like  to 
read  it.  There  is  no  objection  ?  " 


"  PENITENTIARY  CELL,  January  8th. 

"  In  the  name  of  my  dead,  whom  I  shall  soon  join  —  I  desire 
to  thank  you,  dear  Doctor  Grantlin,  for  your  kind  care  of  my 
darling;  and  especially  for  your  delicate  and  tender  regard  for 
all  that  remains  on  earth  of  my  precious  mother.  The  knowledge 
that  she  was  treated  with  the  reverence  due  to  a  lady,  that  she 
was  buried  —  not  as  a  pauper,  but  sleeps  her  last  sleep  under 
the  same  marble  roof  that  shelters  your  dear  departed  ones,  is 
the  one  ray  of  comfort  that  can  ever  pierce  the  awful  gloom  that 
has  settled  like  a  pall  over  me.  I  am  to  be  tried  soon  for  the 
black  and  horrible  crime  I  never  committed  ;  and  the  evidence 
is  so  strong  against  me,  the  circumstances  I  cannot  explain,  are 
so  accusing,  the  belief  of  my  guilt  is  so  general  in  this  community, 


BY- AUGUSTA  EVANS  WILSON.  2O$ 

that  I  have  no  hope  of  acquittal  ;  therefore  I  make  my  prepara- 
tions for  death.  Please  collect  the  money  for  which  I  enclose 
an  order,  and  out  of  it,  take  the  amount  you  spent  when  mother 
died.  It  will  comfort  me  to  know,  that  we  do  not  owe  a  stranger 
for  the  casket  that  shuts  her  away  from  all  grief,  into  the  blessed 
Land  of  Peace.  Keep  the  remainder,  and  when  you  hear  that  I 
am  dead,  unjustly  offered  up  an  innocent  victim  to  appease 
justice,  that  must  have  somebody's  blood  in  expiation,  then  take 
my  body  and  mother's  and  have  us  laid  side  by  side  in  the 
Potter's' field.  The  law  will  crush  my  body,  but  it  is  pure  and 
free  from  every  crime,  and  it  will  be  worthy  still  to  touch  my 
mother's  in  a  common  grave.  Oh,  Doctor!  Does  it  not  seem 
that  some  terrible  curse  has  pursued  me ;  and  that  the  three 
hundred  dollars  I  toiled  and  prayed  for,  was  kept  back  ten  days 
too  late  to  save  me  ?  My  Christmas  card  will  at  least  bury  us 
decently — away  from  the  world  that  trampled  me  down.  Do  not 
doubt  my  innocence,  and  it  will  comfort  me  to  feel  that  he  who 
closed  my  mother's  eyes,  believes  that  her  unfortunate  child  is 
guiltless  and  unstained.  In  life,  and  in  death,  ever 

"  Most  gratefully  your  debtor, 

"  BERYL  BRENTANO." 

A  few  moments  of  profound  silence  ensued  ;  then 
Doctor  Grantlin  handed  some  article  to  Mr.  Dunbar, 
and  stepping  down  from  the  stand,  walked  toward  the 
prisoner. 

She  had  covered  her  face  with  her  hands,  while  he 
gave  his  testimony ;  striving  to  hide  the  anguish  that 
his  presence  revived.  He  placed  his  hand  on  her 
shoulder,  and  whispered  brokenly  : 

"  My  child,  I  know  you  are  innocent.  Would 
to  God  I  could  help  you  to  prove  it  to  these  people !  " 

The  terrible  strain  gave  way  suddenly,  her  proud 
head  was  laid  against  his  arm,  and  suppressed  emotion 
shook  her,  as  a  December  storm  smites  and  bows 
some  shivering  weed. 

Friday,  the  fifth  and  last  day  of  the  trial,  was 
ushered  in  by  a  tempest  of  wind  and  rain,  that  drove 
the  blinding  sheets  of  sleet  against  the  court-house 
windows  with  the  insistence  of  an  icy  flail ;  while  now 
and  then  with  spasmodic  bursts  of  fury  the  gale 
heightened,  rattled  the  sash,  moaned  hysterically,  like 
invisible  fiends  tearing  at  the  obstacles  that  barred 
entiance.  So  dense  was  the  gloom  pervading  the 
court-room,  that  every  gas  jet  was  burning  at  ten 
o'clock,  when  Mr.  Dunbar  rose  and  took  a  position 
e  to  the  jury-box.  The  gray  pallor  of  his  sternly 


2o6  THE    TRIAL  OF  BERYL. 

set  face  increased  his  resemblance  to  a  statue  of  the 
Julian  type,  and  he  looked  rigid  as  granite,  as  he 
turned  his  brilliant  eyes  full  of  blue  fire  upon  the 
grave,  upturned  countenances  of  the  twelve  umpires  : 

"  Gentlemen  of  the  Jury  :  The  sanctity  of  human 
life  is  the  foundation  on  which  society  rests,  and  its 
preservation  is  the  supreme  aim  of  all  human  legisla- 
tion. Rights  of  property,  of  liberty,  are  merely  con- 
ditional, subordinated  to  the  superlative,  divine  right 
of  life.  Labor  creates  property,  law  secures  liberty,  but 
God  alone  gives  life  ;  and  woe  to  that  tribunal,  to  those 
consecrated  priests  of  divine  justice,  who,  sworn  to  lay 
aside  passion  and  prejudice,  and  to  array  themselves 
in  the  immaculate  robes  of  a  juror's  impartiality,  yet 
profane  the  loftiest  prerogative  with  which  civilized  so- 
ciety can  invest  mankind,  and  sacrilegiously  extinguish, 
in  the  name  of  justice,  that  sacred  spark  which  only 
Jehovah's  fiat  kindles.  To  the  same  astute  and 
unchanging  race,  whose  relentless  code  of  jurisprudence 
demanded  'an  eye  for  an  eye,  a  tooth  for  a  tooth,  a 
life  for  a  life,'  we  owe  the  instructive  picture  of 
cautious  inquiry,  of  tender  solicitude  for  the  inviola- 
bility of  human  life,  that  glows  in  immortal  lustre  on 
the  pages  of  the  '  Mechilta'  of  the  Talmud.  In  the  trial 
of  a  Hebrew  criminal,  there  were  '  Lactets,'  consisting 
of  two  men,  one  of  whom  stood  at  the  door  of  the  court, 
with  a  red  flag  in  his  hand,  and  the  other  sat  on  a 
white  horse  at  some  distance  on  the  road  that  led  to 
execution.  Each  of  these  men  cried  aloud  continually, 
the  name  of  the  suspected  criminal,  of  the  witnesses, 
and  his  crime;  and  vehemently  called  upon  any 
person  who  knew  anything  iu  his  favor  to  come  for- 
ward and  testify.  Have  we,  supercilious  braggarts  of 
this  age  of  progress,  attained  the  prudential  wisdom  of 
Sanhedrim  ? 

"  The  State  pays  an  officer  to  sift,  probe,  collect  and 
array  the  evidences  of  crime,  with  which  the  criminal 
is  stoned  to  death  ;  does  it  likewise  commission  and 
compensate  an  equally  painstaking,  lynx-eyed  official 
whose  sole  duty  is  to  hunt  and  proclaim  proofs  of  the 
innocence  of  the  accused  ?  The  great  body  of  the 
commonwealth  is  committed  in  revengeful  zeal  to 
prosecution  ;  upon  whom  devolves  the  doubly  sacred 
and  imperative  duty  of  defence  ?  Art  you  not  here  to 


BY  AUGUSTA  EVANS  WILSON.  2O/ 

give  judgment  in  a  cause  based  on  an  indictment  by  a 
secret  tribunal,  where  ex  parte  testimony  was  alone 
received,  and  the  voice  of  defence  could  not  be  heard  ? 
The  law  infers  that  the  keen  instinct  of  self-preserva- 
lion  will  force  the  accused  to  secure  the  strongest 
possible  legal  defenders ,  and  failing  in  this,  the  law 
perfunctorily  assigns  counsel  to  present  testimony  in 
defence.  Do  the  scales  balance  ? 

"  Imagine  a  race  for  heavy  stakes ;  the  judges  tap 
the  bell ;  three  or  four  superb  thoroughbreds  carefully 
trained  on  that  track,  laboriously  'groomed,  waiting 
for  the  signal,  spring  forward ;  and  when  the  first 
quarter  is  reached,  a  belated  fifth,  handicapped  with 
the  knowledge  that  he  has  made  a  desperately  bad 
start,  bounds  after  them.  If  by  dint  of  some  super- 
human grace  vouchsafed,  some  latent  strain,  some  most 
unexpected  speed,  he  nears,  overtakes,  runs  neck  and 
neck,  slowly  gains,  passes  all  four  and  dashes  breath- 
less and  quivering  under  the  string,  a  whole  length 
ahead,  the  world  of  spectators  shouts,  the  judges  smile, 
and  number  five  wins  the  stakes.  But  was  the  race 
fair  ? 

"  Is  not  justice,  the  beloved  goddess  of  our  idolatry, 
sometimes  so  blinded  by  clouds  of  argument,  and  con- 
fused by  clamor  that  she  fails  indeed  to  see  the  dip  of 
ihe  beam  ?  If  the  accused  be  guilty  and  escape  con- 
viction, he  still  lives ;  and  while  it  is  provided  that  no 
one  can  be  twice  put  in  jeopardy  of  his  life  for  the 
same  offence,  vicious  tendencies  impel  to  renewal  of 
crime,  and  Nemesis,  the  retriever  of  justice,  may  yet 
hunt  him  down.  If  the  accused  be  innocent  as  the 
archangels,  but  suffer  conviction  and  execution,  what 
expiation  can  justice  offer  for  judicially  slaughtering 
him  ?  Are  the  chances  even  ? 

"  All  along  the  dim  vista  of  the  annals  of  criminal 
jurisprudence,  stand  grim  memorials  that  mark  the 
substitution  of  innocent  victims  for  guilty  criminals; 
and  they  are  solemn  sign-posts  of  warning,  melan- 
choly as  the  whitening  bones  of  perished  caravans  in 
desert  sands.  History  relates,  and  tradition  embalms, 
a  sad  incident  of  the  era  of  the  Council  of  Ten,  when 
an  innocent  boy  was  seized,  tried  and  executed  for  the 
murder  of  a  nobleman,  whose  real  assassin  confessed 
the  crime  many  years  subsequent.  In  commemoration 


208  THE  TRIAL  OF  BERYL. 

of  the  public  honor  manifested,  when  the  truth  was 
published,  Venice  decreed  that  henceforth  a  crier 
should  proclaim  in  the  Tribunal  just  before  a  death 
sentence  was  pronounced,  ' '  Ricordateri  del  porero  Mar- 
colini !  remember  the  poor  Marcolini ;  '  beware  of 
merely  circumstantial  evidence. 

"  To  another  instance  I  invite  your  attention.  A 
devoted  Scotch  father  finding  that  his  only  child  had 
contracted  an  unfortunate  attachment  to  a  man  of 
notoriously  bad  character,  interdicted  all  communica- 
tion, and  locked  his  daughter  into  a  tenement  room  ; 
the  adjoining  apartment  (with  only  a  thin  partition  wall 
between)  being  occupied  by  a  neighbor,  who  overheard 
the  angry  altercation  that  ensued.  He  recognized  the 
voices  of  father  and  daughter,  and  the  words  '  barbar- 
ity,' '  cruelty,'  '  death,'  were  repeatedly  heard.  The 
father  at  last  left  the  room,  locking  his  child  in  as  a 
prisoner.  After  a  time,  strange  noises  were  heard  by 
the  tenant  of  the  adjoining  chamber;  suspicion  was 
aroused,  a  bailiff  was  summoned,  the  door  forced  open, 
and  there  lay  the  dying  girl  weltering  in  blood,  with  the 
fatal  knife  lying  near.  She  was  asked  if  her  father  had 
caused  her  sad  condition,  and  she  made  an  affirmative 
gesture  and  expired.  At  that  moment  the  father  re- 
turned, and  stood  stupefied  with  horror,  which  was  in- 
terpreted as  a  consciousness  of  guilt;  and  this  was 
corroborated  by  the  fact  that  his  shirt  sleeve  was 
sprinkled  with  blood.  In  vain  he  asserted  his  inno- 
cence, and  showed  that  the  blood  stains  were  the 
result  of  a  bandage  having  become  untied  where  he 
had  bled  himself  a  few  days  before.  The  words  and 
groans  overheard,  the  blood,  the  affirmation  of  the 
dying  woman,  every  damning  circumstance  constrained 
the  jury  to  convict  him  of  the  murder.  He  was  hung 
in  chains,  and  his  body  left  swinging  from  the  gibbet. 
The  new  tenant,  who  subsequently  rented  the  room, 
was  ransacking  the  chamber  in  which  the  girl  died, 
when,  in  a  cavity  of  the  chimney  where  it  had  fallen 
unnoticed,  was  found  a  paper  written  by  this  girl, 
declaring  her  intention  to  commit  suicide,  and 
closing  with  the  words :  '  My  inhuman  father  is  the 
cause  of  my  death':  thus  explaining  her  dying  gest- 
ures. On  examination  of  this  document  by  the  friends 
and  relatives  of  the  girl,  it  was  recognized  and  identi- 


BY  AUGUSTA  EVANS  WILSON.  209 

fied  as  her  handwriting;  and  it  established  the  fact 
that  the  father  had  died  innocent  of  every  crime,  ex- 
cept that  of  trying  to  save  his  child  from  a  degrading 
marriage. 

"  Now,  mark  the  prompt  and  satisfactory  reparation, 
decreed  by  justice,  and  carried  out  by  the  officers  of 
the  law.  The  shrivelled,  dishonored  body  was  lowered 
from  the  gibbet,  given  to  his  relatives  for  decent  burial, 
and  the  magistrates  who  sentenced  him,  ordered  a  flag 
waved  over  his  grave,  as  compensation  for  all  his 
wrongs. 

"  Gentlemen  of  the  jury,  to  save  you  from  the  com- 
mission of  a  wrong  even  more  cruel,  I  come  to-day  to 
set  before  you  clearly  the  facts,  elicited  from  witnesses 
which  the  honorable  and  able  counsel  for  the  prosecu- 
tion declined  to  cross-examine.  An  able  expounder  of 
the  law  of  evidence  has  warned  us  that :  '  The  force  of 
circumstantial  evidence  being  exclusive  in  its  nature, 
and  the  mere  coincidence  of  the  hypothesis  with  the 
circumstances,  being,  in  the  abstract,  insufficient,  un- 
less they  exclude  erery  other  supposition,  it  is  essential  to 
inquire,  with  the  most  scrupulous  attention,  what  other 
hypotheses  there  may  be,  agreeing  wholly  or  partially 
with  the  facts  in  evidence.' 

"  A  man  of  very  marked  appearance  was  seen  run- 
ning toward  the  railroad,  on  the  night  of  the  twenty- 
sixth,  evidently  goaded  by  some  unusual  necessity  to 

leave  the  neighborhood  of  X before  the  arrival  of 

the  passenger  express.  It  is  proved  that  he  passed 
the  station  exactly  at  the  time  the  prisoner  deposed  she 
heard  the  voice,  and  the  half  of  the  envelope  that  en- 
closed the  missing  will,  was  found  at  the  spot  where 
the  same  person  was  seen,  only  a  few  moments  later. 
Four  days  afterward,  this  man  entered  a  small  station 
in  Pennsylvania,  paid  for  a  railroad  ticket,  with  a  coin 
identical  in  value  and  appearance  with  those  stolen 
from  the  tin  box,  and  as  if  foreordained  to  publish  the 
steps  he  was  striving  to  efface,  accidentally  left  behind 
him  the  trumpet-tongued  fragment  of  envelope,  that 
exactly  fitted  into  the  torn  strip  dropped  at  the  bridge. 
The  most  exhaustive  and  diligent  search  shows  that 

stranger  was  seen  by  no  one  else  in  X ;  that  he 

came  as  a  thief  in  the  night,  provided  with  chloroform 
to  drug  his  intended  victim,  and  having  been  detected 


210  THE   TRIAL   OF  BERYL, 

in  the  act  of  burglariously  abstracting  the  contents  of 
the  tin  box,  fought  with,  and  killed  the  venerable  old 
man,  whom  he  had  robbed. 

"  Under  cover  of  storm   and  darkness  he  escaped 

with  his  plunder  to  some  point  north  of  X ,  where 

doubtless  he  boarded  (unperceived)  the  freight  train, 
and  at  some  convenient  point  slipped  into  a  wooded 
country,  and  made  his  way  to  Pennsylvania.  Why 
were  valuable  bonds  untouched  ?  Because  they  might 
aid  in  betraying  him.  What  conceivable  interest  had 
he  in  the  destruction  of  General  Darrington's  will?  It 
is  in  evidence,  that  the  lamp  was  burning,  and  the 
contents  of  that  envelope  could  have  possessed  no 
value  for  a  man  ignorant  of  the  provisions  of  the  will ; 
and  the  superscription  it  was  impossible  to  misread. 
Suppose  that  this  mysterious  person  was  fully  cogni- 
zant of  the  family  secrets  of  the  Darringtons  ?  Suppose 
that  he  knew  that  Mrs.  Brentano  and  her  daughter 
would  inherit  a  large  fortune,  if  General  Darrington  died 
intestate  ?  If  he  had  wooed  and  won  the  heart  of  the 
daughter,  and  believed  that  her  rights  had  been  sacri- 
ficed to  promote  the  aggrandizement  of  an  alien,  the 
adopted  step-son  Prince,  had  not  such  a  man,  the  ac- 
cepted lover  of  the  daughter,  a  personal  interest  in  the 
provisions  of  a  will  which  disinherited  Mrs.  Brentano, 
and  her  child  ?  Have  you  not  now,  motive,  means, 
and  opportunity,  and  links  of  evidence  that  point  to 
this  man  as  the  real  agent,  the  guilty  author  of  the 
awful  crime  we  are  all  leagued  in  solemn,  legal  cove- 
nant to  punish  ?  Suppose  that  fully  aware  of  the 

prisoner's  mission  to  X ,  he  had  secretly  followed 

her,  and  supplemented  her  afternoon  visit,  by  the 
fatal  interview  of  the  night?  Doubtless  he  had  in- 
tended escorting  her  home,  but  when  the  frightful 
tragedy  was  completed,  the  curse  of  Cain  drove  him, 
in  terror,  to  instant  flight  ;  and  he  sought  safety  in 
western  wilds,  leaving  his  innocent  and  hapless  be- 
trothed to  bear  the  penalty  of  his  crime.  The  hand- 
kerchief used  to  administer  chloroform,  bore  her  in- 
itials ;  was  doubtless  a  souvenir  given  in  days  gone 
by  to  that  unworthy  miscreant,  as  a  token  of  affec- 
tion, by  the  trusting  woman  he  deserted  in  the  hour 
of  peril.  In  this  solution  of  an  awful  enigma,  is  there 
an  undue  strain  upon  credulity ;  is  there  any  antagon- 


BY  A UG 6«- TA  E VANS  WILSON.  2 1  I 

ism  of  facts,  which  the  torn  envelope,  the  pipe,  the 
twenty-dollar  gold  pieces  seen  in  Pennsylvania,  do  not 
reconcile  ? 

"  A  justly  celebrated  writer  on  the  law  of  evidence 
has  wisely  said:  'In  criminal  cases,  the  statement 
made  by  the  accused  is  of  essential  importance  in  some 
points  of  view.  Such  is  the  complexity  of  human 
affairs,  and  so  infinite  the  combinations  of  circum- 
stances, that  the  true  hypothesis  which  is  capable  of 
explaining  and  reuniting  all  the  apparently  conflicting 
circumstances  of  the  case,  may  escape  the  acutest 
penetration  :  but  the  prisoner,  so  far  as  he  alone  is 
concerned,  can  always  afford  a  clue  to  them  ;  and 
though  he  may  be  unable  to  support  his  statement  by 
evidence,  his  account  of  the  transaction  is,  for  this 
purpose,  always  most  material  and  important.  The 
effect  may  be  to  suggest  a  view,  which  consists  with 
the  innocence  of  the  accused,  and  might  otherwise 
have  escaped  observation.' 

"  During  the  preliminary  examination  of  this  pris- 
oner in  October,  she  inadvertently  furnished  this  clue, 
when,  in  explaining  her  absence  from  ihe  station 
house,  she  stated  that  suddenly  awakened  from  sleep, 
'  she  heard  the  voice  of  one  she  kneu>  and  loved'  and 
'  ran  out  to  seek  the  speaker.'  Twice  she  has  repeated 
the  conversation  she  heard,  and  every  word  is  cor- 
roborated by  the  witness  who  saw  and  talked  with  the 
owner  of  that  '  beloved  voice.'  When  asked  to  give 
the  name  of  that  man,  whom  she  expected  to  find  in 
the  street,  she  falters,  refuses ;  love  seals  her  lips, 
and  the  fact  that  she  will  die  sooner  than  yield  that 
which  must  bring  him  to  summary  justice,  is  alone 
sufficient  to  fix  the  guilt  upon  the  real  culprit. 

"  There  is  a  rule  in  criminal  jurisprudence,  that 
1  presumptive  evidence  ought  never  to  be  relied  on, 
when  direct  testimony  is  wilfully  withheld.'  She 
shudders  at  sight  of  the  handkerchief  ;  did  she  not  give 
it  to  him,  in  some  happy  hour  as  a  tender  Ricordo  ? 
When  the  pipe  which  he  lost  in  his  precipitate  flight  is 
held  up  to  the  jury,  she  recognizes  it  instantly  as  her 
lover's  property,  and  shivers  with  horror  at  the  danger 
of  his  detection  and  apprehension.  Does  not  this  array 
of  accusing  circumstances  demand  as  careful  consider- 
ation, as  the  chain  held  up  to  your  scrutiny  by  the 


212  THE  TRIAL  OF  BERYL. 

prosecution  ?  In  the  latter,  there  is  an  important 
link  missing,  which  the  theory  of  the  defence  supplies. 
When  the  prisoner  was  arrested  and  searched,  there 
was  found  in  her  possession  only  the  exact  amount  of 
money,  which  it  is  in  evidence,  that  she  came  South  to 
obtain  ;  and  which  she  has  solemnly  affirmed  was  given 
to  her  by  General  Darrington.  We  know  from  memo- 
randa found  in  the  rifled  box,  that  it  contained  only  a 
few  days  previous,  five  hundred  dollars  in  gold.  Three 
twenty-dollar  gold  coins  were  discovered  on  the  carpet, 
and  one  in  the  vault ;  what  became  of  the  remaining 
three  hundred  and  twenty  dollars  ?  With  the  exception 
of  one  hundred  dollars  found  in  the  basket  of  the 
prisoner,  she  had  only  five  copper  pennies  in  her  purse, 
when  so  unexpectedly  arrested,  that  it  was  impossible 
she  could  have  secreted  anything.  Three  hundred  and 
twenty  dollars  disappeared  in  company  with  the  will, 
and  like  the  torn  envelope,  two  of  those  gold  coins  lifted 
their  accusing  faces  in  Pennsylvania,  where  the  fugi- 
tive from  righteous  retribution  paid  for  the  wings  that 
would  transport  him  beyond  the  risk  of  detection. 

"  Both  theories  presented  for  your  careful  analy- 
sis, are  based  entirely  upon  circumstantial  evidence; 
and  is  not  the  solution  I  offer  less  repugran:  to  the 
canons  of  credibility,  and  infinitely  less  revolting  to 
every  instinct  of  honorable  manhood,  than  the  horrible 
hypothesis  that  a  refined,  cultivated,  noble  Christian 
woman,  a  devoted  daughter,  irreproachable  in  antece- 
dent life,  bearing  the  fiery  ordeal  of  the  past  four 
months  with  a  noble  heroism  that  commands  the  invol- 
untary admiration  of  all  who  have  watched  her — that 
such  a  perfect  type  of  beautiful  womanhood  as  the  pris- 
oner presents,  could  deliberately  plan  and  execute  the 
vile  scheme  of  theft  and  murder  ?  Gentlemen,  she  is 
guilty  of  but  one  sin  against  the  peace  and  order  of  this 
community  :  the  sin  of  withholding  the  name  of  one  for 
whose  bloody  crime  she  is  not  responsible.  Does  not 
her  invincible  loyalty,  her  unwavering  devotion  to  the 
craven  for  whom  she  suffers,  invest  her  with  the  halo 
of  a  martyrdom,  that  appeals  most  powerfully  to  the 
noblest  impulses  of  your  nature,  that  enlists  the  warm- 
est, holiest  sympathies  lying  deep  in  your  manly 
hearts?  Analyze  her  statement;  every  utterance 
bears  the  stamp  of  innocence  ;  and  where  she  cannot 


BY  A UGUSTA  R VANS  WILSON.  2  1 3 

explain  truthfully,  she  declines  to  make  any  explanation. 
Hers  is  the  sin  of  silence,  the  grievous  evasion  of  jus- 
tice by  non-responsion,  whereby  the  danger  she  will 
not  avert  by  confession  recoils  upon  her  innocent  head. 
Bravely  she  took  on  her  reluctant  shoulders  the  gall- 
ing burden  of  parental  command,  and  Stirling  her 
proud  repugnance,  obediently  came — a  fair  young 
stranger  to  '  Elm  Bluff.'  Receiving  as  a  loan  the 
money  she  came  to  beg  for,  she  hurries  away  to  fulfil 
another  solemnly  imposed  injunction. 

"  Gentlemen,  is  there  any  spot  out  yonder  in  God's 
Acre,  where  violets,  blue  as  the  eyes  that  once  smiled 
upon  you,  now  shed  their  fragrance  above  the  sacred 
dust  of  your  dead  darlings,  and  the  thought  of  which 
melts  your  hearts  and  dims  your  vision  ?  Look  at  this 
mournful,  touching  witness,  which  comes  from  that 
holy  cemetery  to  whisper  to  your  souls,  that  the  hands 
of  the  prisoner  are  as  pure  as  those  of  your  idols, 
folded  under  the  sod.  Only  a  little  bunch  of  withered 
brown  flowers,  tied  with  a  faded  blue  ribbon,  that  a 
poor  girl  bought  with  her  hard  earned  pennies,  and 
carried  to  a  sick  mother,  to  brighten  a  dreary  attic ; 
only  a  dead  nosegay,  which  that  mother  requested 
should  be  laid  as  a  penitential  tribute  on  the  tomb  of 
the  mother  whom  she  had  disobeyed  ;  and  this  faithful 
young  heart  made  the  pilgrimage,  and  left  the  offering 
— and  in  consequence  thereof,  missed  the  train  that 
would  have  carried  her  safely  back  to  her  mother — 
and  to  peace.  On  the  morning  after  the  preliminary 
examination  I  went  to  the  cemetery4,  and  found  the 
fatal  flowers  just  where  she  had  placed  them,  on  the 
great  marble  cross  that  covers  the  tomb  of  'Helena 
Tracey — wife  of  Luke  Darrington.' 

"  You  husbands  and  fathers  who  trust  your  names, 
your  honor,  the  peace  of  your  hearts — almost  the  sal- 
vation of  your  souls — to  the  women  you  love  ;  staking 
the  dearest  interest  of  humanity,  the  sanctity  of  that 
heaven  on  earth — your  stainless  homes — upon  the 
fidelity  of  womanhood,  can  you  doubt  for  one  instant, 
that  the  prisoner  will  accept  death  rather  than  betray 
the  man  she  loves  ?  No  human  plummet  has  sounded 
the  depths  of  a  woman's  devotion  ;  no  surveyor's  chain 
will  ever  mark  the  limits  of  a  woman's  faithful,  patient 
endurance  ;  and  only  the  wings  of  an  archangel  can 


214  THE  TklAL  OF  BERYL. 

transcend  that  pinnacle  to  which  the  sublime  principle 
of  self-sacrifice  exalts  a  woman's  soul. 

"  In  a  quaint  old  city  on  the  banks  of  the  Pegnitz, 
history  records  an  instance  of  feminine  self-abnegation, 
more  enduring  than  monuments  of  brass.  The  law 
had  decreed  a  certain  provision  for  the  maintenance  of 
orphans  ;  and  two  women  in  dire  distress,  seeing  no 
possible  avenue  of  help,  accused  themselves  falsely  of 
a  capital  crime,  and  were  executed  ;  thereby  securing 
a  support  for  the  children  they  orphaned. 

"  As  a  tireless  and  vigilant  prosecutor  of  the  real 
criminal,  the  Cain-branded  man  now  wandering  in 
some  western  wild,  I  charge  the  prisoner  with  only  one 
sin,  suicidal  silence  ;  and  I  commend  her  to  your  most 
tender  compassion,  believing  that  in  every  detail  and 
minutiae  she  has  spoken  the  truth ;  and  that  she  is  as 
innocent  of  the  charge  in  the  indictment  as  you  or  I. 
Remember  that  you  have  only  presumptive  proof  to 
guide  you  in  this  solemn  deliberation,  and  in  the  ab- 
sence of  direct  proof  do  not  be  deluded  by  a  glittering 
sophistry,  which  will  soon  attempt  to  persuade  you 
that :  '  A  presumption  which  necessarily  arises  from 
circumstances,  is  very  often  more  convincing  and  more 
satisfactory  than  any  other  kind  of  evidence  ;  it  is  not 
within  the  reach  and  compass  of  human  abilities  to 
invent  a  train  of  circumstances,  which  shall  be  so  con- 
nected together  as  to  amount  to  a  proof  of  guilt,  with- 
out affording  opportunities  of  contradicting  a  great 
part,  if  not  all,  of  these  circumstances.' 

"  Believe  it  not ;  circumstantial  evidence  has  caused 
as  much  innocent  blood  to  flow,  as  the  cimeter  of 
Jenghiz  Khan.  The  counsel  for  the  prosecution  will 
tell  you  that  every  fact  in  this  melancholy  case  stabs 
the  prisoner,  and  that  facts  cannot  lie.  Abstractly 
and  logically  considered,  facts  certainly  do  not  lie ;  but 
let  us  see  whether  the  inferences  deduced  from  what 
we  believe  to  be  facts,  do  not  sometimes  eclipse  Ana- 
nias and  Sapphira  !  Not  long  ago,  the  public  heart 
thrilled  with  horror  at  the  tidings  of  the  Ashtabula 
railway  catastrophe,  in  which  a  train  of  cars  plunged 
through  a  bridge,  took  fire,  and  a  number  of  passen- 
gers were  consumed,  charred  beyond  recognition. 
Soon  afterward,  a  poor  woman,  mother  of  two  children, 
commenced  suit  against  the  railway  company,  alleging 


BY  A UGUSTA  E VANS  WILSON.  2  I  5 

.hat  her  husband  had  perished  in  that  disaster.  The 
evidence  adduced  was  only  of  a  circumstantial  nature, 
as  the  body  which  had  been  destroyed  by  flames, 
could  not  be  found.  Searching  in  the  debris  at  the 
fatal  spot,  she  had  found  a  bunch  of  keys,  that  she 
positively  recognized  as  belonging  to  her  husband,  and 
in  his  possession  when  he  died.  One  key  fitted  the 
clock  in  her  house,  and  a  mechanic  was  ;ea  ly  to  swear 
that  he  had  made  such  a  key  for  the  deceased.  An- 
other key  fitted  a  chest  she  owned,  and  still  another 
fitted  the  door  of  her  house  ;  while,  strongest  of  all 
proof,  she  found  a  piece  of  cloth  which  she  identified 
as  part  of  her  husband's  coat.  A  physician  who  knew 
her  husband,  testified  that  he  rode  as  far  as  Buffalo  on 
the  same  train  with  the  deceased,  on  the  fatal  day  of 
the  disaster  ;  and  another  witness  deposed  that  he  saw 
the  deceased  take  the  train  at  Buffalo,  that  went  down 
to  ruin  at  Ashtabula.  Certainly  the  chain  of  circum- 
stantial evidence,  from  veracious  facts,  seemed  com- 
plete ;  but  lo  !  during  the  investigation  it  was  ascer- 
tained beyond  doubt,  to  the  great  joy  of  the  wife,  that 
the  husband  had  never  been  near  Ashtabula,  and  was 
safe  and  well  at  a  Pension  Home  in  a  Western  State. 

"The  fate  of  a  very  noble  and  innocent  woman  is 
now  committed  to  your  hands,  and  only  presumptive 
proof  is  laid  before  you.  '  The  circumstance  is  always 
a  fact;  the  presumption  is  the  inference  drawn  from 
that  fact.  It  is  hence  called  presumptive  proof,  be 
cause  it  proceeds  merely  in  opinion.'  Suffer  no  brill- 
iant sophistry  to  dazzle  your  judgment,  no  remnant  of 
prejudice  to  swerve  you  from  the  path  of  fidelity  to 
your  oath.  To  your  calm  reasoning,  your  generous 
manly  hearts,  your  Christian  consciences,  I  resign  the 
desolate  prisoner;  and  as  you  deal  with  her,  so  may 
the  God  above  us,  the  just  and  holy  God  who  has 
numbered  the  hairs  of  her  innocent  head,  deal  here 
and  hereafter  with  you  and  yours." 

That  magnetic  influence,  whereby  the  emotions  of 
an  audience  are  swayed,  as  the  tides  that  follow  the 
moon,  was  in  large  measure  the  heritage  of  the  hand- 
some man  who  held  the  eyes  of  the  jurymen  in  an 
almost  unwinking  gaze;  and  when  his  uplifted  arm 
slowly  fell  to  his  side,  Judge  Dent  grasped  it  in  mute 


2l6  THE  TRIAL  OF  RERYL. 

congratulation,  and  Mr.  Churchill  took  his  hand,  and 
shook  it  warmly. 

Mr.  Wolverton  came  forward  to  sum  up  the  evidence 
for  the  prosecution,  and  laboriously  recapitulated  and 
dwelt  upon  the  mass  of  facts,  which  he  claimed  was 
susceptible  of  but  one  interpretation,  and  must  compel 
the  jury  to  convict,  in  accordance  with  the  indictment. 

Upon  the  ears  of  the  prisoner,  his  words  fell  as  a 
-harsh,  meaningless  murmur;  and  above  the  insistent 
mutter,  rose  and  fell  the  waves  of  a  rich,  resonant 
voice,  that  surrounded,  penetrated,  electrified  her 
brain  ;  thrilled  her  whole  being  with  a  strange  and 
inexplicable  sensation  of  happiness.  For  months  she 
had  fought  against  the  singular  fascination  that  dwelt 
in  those  brilliant  blue  eyes,  and  lurked  in  every  line  of 
the  swart,  stern  face ;  holding  at  bay  the  magnetic 
attraction  which  he  exerted  from  the  hour  of  the  pre- 
liminary examination.  Of  all  men,  she  had  feared 
him  most,  had  shrunk  from  every  opportunity  of  con- 
tact, had  execrated  him  as  the  malign  personification, 
the  veritable  incarnation  of  the  evil  destiny  that  had 
hounded  her  from  the  day  she  first  saw  X . 

Listening  to  his  appeal  for  her  deliverance,  each 
word  throbbing  with  the  fervent  heat  of  a  heart  that 
she  knew  was  all  her  own,  an  exquisite  sense  of  rest 
gradually  stole  over  her ;  as  a  long-suffering  child 
spent  with  pain,  sinks,  soothed  at  last  in  the  enfolding 
arms  of  protective  love.  That  dark,  eloquent  face 
drew,  held  her  gaze  with  the  spell  of  a  loadstone,  and 
even  in  the  imminence  of  her  jeopardy,  she  recalled 
the  strange  resemblance  he  bore  to  the  militant  angel 
she  had  once  seen  in  a  painting,  where  he  wrestled 
with  Satan  for  possession  of  the  body  of  Moses.  Dis- 
grace, peril,  the  gaunt  spectre  of  death  suddenly  dis- 
solved, vanished  in  the  glorious  burst  of  rosy  light 
that  streamed  into  all  the  chill  chambers  of  her  heart ; 
and  she  bowed  her  head  in  her  hands,  to  hide  the 
crimson  that  painted  her  cheeks. 

How  long  Mr.  Wolverton  talked,  she  never  knew  : 
but  the  lull  that  succeeded  was  broken  by  the  tones  of 
fudge  Parkman. 

"  Beryl  Brentano,  it  is  my  duty  to  remind  you  that 
this  is  the  last  opportunity  the  law  allows  you,  to 
speak  in  your  own  vindication.  The  testimony  has 


BY  A  UGUSTA  E  VANS  WILSON.  2  \  7 

all  been  presented  to  those  appointed  to  decide  upon 
its  value.  If  there  be  any  final  statement  that  you 
may  desire  to  offer  in  self-defence,  you  must  make  it 
now." 

Could  the  hundreds  who  watched  and  waited  ever 
forget  the  sight  of  that  superb,  erect  figure,  that  ex- 
quisite face,  proud  as  Hypatia's,  patient  as  Perpetua's, 
or  the  sound  of  that  pathetic,  unwavering  voice  ? 
Mournfully,  yet  steadily,  she  raised  her  great  gray 
eyes,  darkened  by  the  violet  shadows  suffering  had 
cast,  and  looked  at  her  judges. 

"  I  am  guiltless  of  any  and  all  crime.  I  have 
neither  robbed,  nor  murdered ;  and  I  am  neither  prin- 
cipal, nor  accomplice  in  the  horrible  sin  imputed  to 
me.  I  know  nothing  of  the  chloroform ;  I  never 
touched  the  andiron  ;  i  never  saw  General  Darrington 
but  once.  He  gave  me  the  gold  and  the  sapphires, 
and  I  am  as  innocent  of  his  death,  and  of  the  destruc- 
tion of  his  will  as  the  sinless  little  children  who  prattle 
at  your  firesides,  and  nestle  to  sleep  in  your  arms. 
My  life  has  been  disgraced  and  ruined  by  no  act  of 
mine,  for  I  have  kept  my  hands,  my  heart,  my  soul,  as 
pure  and  free  from  crime  as  they  were  when  God  gave 
them  to  me.  I  am  the  helpless  prey  of  suspicion,  and 
the  guiltless  victim  of  the  law.  O,  my  judges!  I 
do  not  crave  your  mercy — that  is  the  despairing 
prayer  of  conscious  guilt;  I  demand  at  your  hands, 
justice.' 

The  rushing  sound  as  of  a  coming  flood  filled  her 
ears,  and  her  words  echoed  vaguely  from  some  im- 
measurably distant  height.  The  gaslights  seemed 
whirling  in  a  Walpurgis  maze,  as  she  sat  down  and 
once  more  veiled  her  face  in  her  hands. 

When  she  recovered  sufficiently  to  listen,  Mr. 
Churchill  had  risen  for  the  closing  speech  of  the  pros- 
ecution. 

'Gentlemen  of  the  Jury:  I  were  a  blot  upon  a 
noble  profession,  a  disgrace  to  honorable  manhood, 
and  a  monster  in  my  own  estimation,  if  I  could 
approach  the  fatal  Finis  of  this  melancholy  trial,  with- 
out painful  emotions  of  profound  regret,  that  the 
solemn  responsibility  of  my  official  position  makes  me 
the  reluctant  bearer  of  the  last  stern  message  uttered 
by  retributive  justice.  How  infinitely  more  enviable 


2l8  THE  TRIAL  OF  BERYL. 

the  duty  of  the  Amicus  Curice,  my  gallant  friend  and 
quondam  colleague,  who  in  voluntary  defence  has  so 
ingeniously,  eloquently  and  nobly  led  a  forlorn  hope, 
that  he  knew  was  already  irretrievably  lost !  Des- 
perate, indeed,  must  he  deem  that  cause  for  which  he 
battles  so  valiantly,  when  dire  extremity  goads  him  to 
lift  a  rebellious  and  unfilial  voice  against  the  provis- 
ions of  his  foster-mother,  Criminal  Jurisprudence,  in 
whose  service  he  won  the  brilliant  distinction  and 
crown  of  laurel  that  excite  the  admiration  and  envy  of 
a  large  family  of  his  less  fortunate  foster-brothers,  i 
honor  his  heroism,  applaud  his  chivalrous  zeal,  and 
wish  that  I  stood  in  his  place  ;  but  not  mine  the  priv- 
ilege of  trouncing  the  white  horse,  and  waving  the  red 
flag  of  the  '  Lactees.'  Dedicated  to  the  mournful 
rites  of  justice,  I  have  laid  an  iron  hand  on  the  quiver- 
ing lips  of  pity,  that  cried  to  me  like  the  voice  of  onj 
of  my  own  little  ones  ;  and  very  sorrowfully,  at  the  com- 
mand of  conscience,  reason  and  my  official  duty,  [ 
obey  the  mandate  to  ring  down  the  black  curtain  on  a 
terrible  tragedy,  feeling  like  Dante,  when  he  con- 
fronted the  doomed — 

" '  And  to  a  part  I  come,  where  no  light  shines.' 

So  clearly  and  ably  has  my  distinguished  associate, 
Mr.  Wolverton,  presented  all  the  legal  points  bearing 
upon  the  nature  and  value  of  the  proof,  submitted  for 
your  examination,  that  any  attempt  to  buttress  his 
powerful  argument,  were  an  unpardonable  reflection 
upon  your  intelligence,  and  his  skill  ;  and  I  shall  con- 
fine my  last  effort  in  behalf  of  justice,  to  a  brief  analy- 
sis and  comparison  of  the  hypothesis  of  the  defence, 
with  the  verified  result  of  the  prosecution. 

"  Beautiful  and  sparkling  as  the  frail  glass  of 
Murano,  and  equally  as  thin,  as  treacherously  brittle, 
is  the  theory  so  skilfully  manufactured  in  behalf  of  the 
accused  ;  and  so  adroitly  exhibited  that  the  ingenious 
facets  catch  every  possible  gleam,  and  for  a  moment 
almost  dazzle  the  eyes  of  the  beholder.  In  attempt- 
ing to  cast  a  lance  against  the  shield  of  circumstantial 
evidence,  his  weapon  rebounded,  recoiled  upon  his 
fine  spun  crystal  and  shivered  it.  What  were  the 
materials  wherewith  he  worked?  Circumstances, 


BY  AUGUSTA  EVANS  WILSON.  2 19 

strained,  well  nigh  dislocated  by  the  effort  to  force 
them  to  fit  into  his  Procrustean  measure.  A  man  was 
seen  on  the  night  of  the  twenty-sixth,  who  appeared 

unduly  anxious  to   quit  X before   daylight ;  and 

again  the  mysterious  stranger  was  seen  in  a  distant 
town  in  Pennsylvania,  where  he  showed  some  gold 
coins  of  a  certain  denomination,  and  dropped  on  the 
floor  one-half  of  an  envelope,  that  once  contained  a 
will.  In  view  of  these  circumstances  (the  prosecution 
calls  them  facts),  the  counsel  for  the  defence  presumes 
that  said  stranger  committed  the  murder,  stole  the 
will ;  and  offers  this  opinion  as  presumptive  proof  that 
the  prisoner  is  innocent.  The  argument  runs  thus  : 
this  man  was  an  accepted  lover  of  the  accused,  and 
therefore  he  must  have  destroyed  the  will  that  beg- 
gared his  betrothed  ;  but  it  is  nowhere  in  evidence, 
that  any  lover  existed,  outside  of  the  counsel's  imagi- 
nation ;  yet  Asmodeus  like  he  must  appear  when  called 
for,  and  so  we  are  expected  to  infer,  assume,  presume 
that  because  he  stole  the  will  he  must  be  her  lover. 
Does  it  not  make  your  head  swim  to  spin  round  in  this 
circle  of  reasoning  ?  In  assailing  the  validity  of  cir- 
cumstantial evidence,  has  he  not  cut  his  bridges, 
burned  his  ships  behind  him  ? 

"  Gentlemen,  fain  would  I  seize  this  theory  were  it 
credible,  and  setting  thereon,  as  in  an  ark,  this  most 
unfortunate  prisoner,  float  her  safely  through  the 
deluge  of  ruin,  anchor  her  in  peaceful  security  upon 
some  far-off  Ararat ;  but  it  has  gone  to  pieces  in  the 
hands  of  its  architect.  Instead  of  rescuing  the  drown- 
ing, the  wreck  serves  only  to  beat  her  down.  If  we 
accept  the  hypothesis  of  a  lover  at  all,  it  will  furnish 
the  one  missing  link  in  the  terrible  chain  that  clanks 
around  the  luckless  prisoner.  The  disappearance  of 
the  three  hundred  and  twenty  dollars  has  sorely  per- 
plexed the  prosecution,  and  unexpectedly  the  defence 
offers  us  the  one  circumstance  we  lacked  ;  the  lover 
was  lurking  in  the  neighborhood,  to  learn  the  result 
of  the  visit,  to  escort  her  home  ;  and  to  him  the  pris- 
oner gave  the  missing  gold,  to  him  intrusted  the  de- 
struction of  the  will.  If  that  man  came  to  '  Elm  Bluff ' 
prepared  to  rob  and  murder,  by  whom  was  he  incited 
and  instigated ;  and  who  was  the  accessory,  and  there- 
fore particeps  criminis  ?  The  prisoner's  handkerchief 


22O  THE  TRIAL  OF  BERYL. 

was  the  medium  of  chloroforming  that  venerable  old 
man,  and  can  there  be  a  reasonable  doubt  that  she 
aided  in  administering  u  ? 

"  The  prosecution  could  not  explain  why  she  came 
from  the  direction  of  the  railroad  bridge,  which  was 
far  out  of  her  way  from  '  Elm  Bluff  ' ;  but  the  defence 
gives  the  most  satisfactory  solution ;  she  was  there, 
dividing  her  blood-stained  spoils  with  the  equally- 
guilty  accomplice — her  lover.  The  prosecution  brings 
to  the  bar  of  retribution  only  one  criminal ;  the  de- 
fence not  only  fastens  the  guilt  upon  this  unhappy 
woman,  by  supplying  the  missing  links,  but  proves 
premeditation,  by  the  person  of  an  accomplice.  Four 
months  have  been  spent  in  hunting  some  fact  that 
would  tend  to  exculpate  the  accused,  but  each  circum- 
stance dragged  to  light  serves  only  to  swell  the  dismal 
chorus,  'Woe  to  the  guilty.'  To-day  she  sits  in  the 
ashes  of  desolation,  condemned  by  the  unanimous  evi- 
dence of  every  known  fact  connected  with  this  awful 
tragedy.  To  oppose  this  black  and  frightful  host  of 
proofs,  what  does  she  offer  us  ?  Simply  her  bare,  sol- 
emnly reiterated  denial  of  guilt.  We  hold  our  breath, 
hoping  against  hope  that  she  will  give  some  explana- 
tion, some  solution,  that  our  pitying  hearts  are  wait- 
ing so  eagerly  to  hear;  but  dumb  as  the  sphinx,  she 
awaits  her  doom.  You  will  weigh  that  bare  denial  in 
the  scale  with  the  evidence,  and  in  this  momentous 
duty  recollect  the  cautious  admonition  that  has  been 
furnished  to  guide  you :  '  Conceding  that  assevera- 
tions of  innocence  are  always  deserving  of  considera- 
tion by  the  executive,  what  is  there  to  invest  them 
with  a  conclusive  efficacy,  in  opposition  to  a  chain  of 
presumptive  evidence,  the  force  and  weight  of  which 
falls  short  only  of  mathematical  demonstration  ? '  The 
astute  and  eloquent  counsel  for  defence,  has  cited 
some  well-known  cases,  to  shake  your  faith  in  the 
value  of  merely  presumptive  proof. 

"  I  offer  for  your  consideration,  an  instance  of  the 
fallibility  of  merely  bare,  unsupported  denial  of  guilt, 
on  the  part  of  the  accused.  A  priest  at  Lauterbach 
was  suspected,  arrested  and  tried  for  the  murder  of  a 
woman,  under  very  aggravated  circumstances.  He 
was  subjected  to  eighty  examinations;  and  each  time 
solemnly  denied  the  crime.  Even  when  confronted  at 


BY  AUGUSTA  EVANS  WILSON.  221 

midnight  with  the  skull  of  the  victim  murdered  eight 
years  before,  lie  vehemently  protested  his  innocence; 
called  on  the  skull  to  declare  him  not  the  assassin,  and 
appealed  to  the  Holy  Trinity  to  proclaim  his  innocence. 
Finally  he  confessed  his  crime;  testified  that  while 
cutting  the  throat  of  his  victim,  he  had  exhorted  her 
to  repentance,  had  given  her  absolution,  and  that  hav- 
ing concealed  the  corpse,  he  had  said  masses  for  her 
soul. 

"The  forlorn  and  hopeless  condition  of  the  prisoner 
at  this  bar,  appeals  pathetically  to  that  compassion 
which  we  are  taught  to  believe  coexists  with  justice, 
even  in  the  omnipotent  God  we  worship;  yet  in  the 
face  of  incontrovertible  facts  elicited  from  reliable  wit- 
nesses, of  coincidences  which  no  theory  of  accident 
can  explain,  can  we  stifle  convictions,  solely  because 
she  pleads  'not  guilty'?  Pertinent,  indeed,  was  the 
ringing  cry  of  that  ancient  prosecutor :  '  Most  illus- 
trious Caesar !  if  denial  of  guilt  be  sufficient  defence, 
who  would  ever  be  convicted  ? '  You  have  been  assured 
that  inferences  drawn  from  probable  facts  eclipse  the 
stupendous  falsehood  of  Ananias  and  Sapphira !  Then 
the  same  family  strain  inevitably  crops  out,  in  the 
loosely-woven  web  of  defensive  presumptive  evidence — 
whose  pedigree  we  trace  to  the  same  parentage.  God 
forbid  that  I  should  commit  the  sacrilege  of  arrogating 
His  divine  attribute — infallibility — for  any  human  au- 
thority, however  exalted  ;  or  claim  it  for  any  amount  of 
proof,  presumptive  or  positive.  'It  is  because  human- 
ity even  when  most  cautious  and  discriminating  is  so 
mournfully  fallible  and  prone  to  error,  that  in  judging 
its  own  frailty,  we  require  the  aid  and  reverently  in- 
voke the  guidance  of  Jehovah.'  In  your  solemn  delib- 
erations bear  in  mind  this  epitome  of  an  opinion, 
entitled  to  more  than  a  passing  consideration  :  '  Per- 
haps strong  circumstantial  evidence  in  cases  of  crime, 
committed  for  the  most  part  in  secret,  is  the  most  sat- 
isfactory of  any  from  whence  to  draw  the  conclusion  of 
guilt ;  for  men  may  be  seduced  to  perjury,  by  many 
base  motives  ;  but  it  can  scarcely  happen  that  many 
circumstances,  especially  if  they  be  such  over  which 
the  accuser  could  have  no  control,  forming  altogether 
the  links  of  a  transaction,  should  all  unfortunately  con- 


222  THE  TRIAL  OF  BERYL. 

cur  to  fix  the  presumption  of  guilt  on  an  individual, 
and  yet  such  a  conclusion  be  erroneous.' 

"Gentlemen  of  the  jury:  the  prosecution  believes 
that  the  overwhelming  mass  of  evidence  laid  before 
you  proves,  beyond  a  reasonable  doubt,  that  the  pris- 
oner did  premeditatedly  murder  and  rob  Robert  Luke 
Darrington  ;  and  in  the  name  of  justice,  we  demand 
that  you  vindicate  the  majesty  of  outraged  law,  by 
rendering  a  verdict  of  'guilty.'  All  the  evidence  in 
this  case  points  the  finger  of  doom  at  the  prisoner,  as 
to  the  time,  the  place,  the  opportunity,  the  means,  the 
conduct  and  the  motive.  Suffer  not  sympathy  for 
youthful  womanhood  and  wonderful  beauty,  to  make 
you  recreant  to  the  obligations  of  your  oath,  to  decide 
this  issue  of  life  or  death,  strictly  in  accordance  with 
the  proofs  presented ;  and  bitterly  painful  as  is  your 
impending  duty,  do  not  allow  the  wail  of  pity  to  drown 
the  demands  of  justice,  or  the  voice  of  that  blood 
that  cries  to  heaven  for  vengeance  upon  the  murderess. 
May  the  righteous  God  who  rules  the  destinies  of  the 
universe  guide  you,  and  enable  you  to  perform  faith- 
fully your  awful  duty." 

Painfully  solemn  was  the  profound  silence  that  per- 
vaded the  court-room,  and  the  eyes  of  the  multitude 
turned  anxiously  to  the  grave  countenance  of  the 
Judge.  Mr.  Dunbar  had  seated  himself  at  a  small 
table,  not  far  from  Beryl,  and  resting  his  elbow  upon 
it,  leaned  his  right  temple  in  the  palm  of  his  hand, 
watching  from  beneath  his  contracted  black  brows  the 
earnest,  expectant  faces  of  the  jurymen  ;  and  his  keen, 
glowing  eyes  indexed  little  of  the  fierce,  wolfish  pangs 
that  gnawed  ceaselessly  at  his  heart,  as  the  intoler- 
able suspense  drew  near  its  end. 

Judge  Parkman  leaned  forward. 

"  Gentlemen  of  the  jury  :  Before  entering  that  box, 
as  the  appointed  ministers  of  justice,  to  arbitrate  upon 
the  most  momentous  issue  that  can  engage  human 
attention — the  life  or  death  of  a  fellow  creature — you 
called  your  Maker  to  witness  that  you  would  divest 
your  minds  of  every  shadow  of  prejudice,  would  calmly, 
carefully,  dispassionately  consider,  analyze  and  weigh 
the  evidence  submitted  for  your  investigation ;  and 
irrespective  of  consequences,  render  a  verdict  in  strict 
accordance  with  the  proofs  presented.  You  have 


BY  AUGUSTA  EVANS  WILSON.  22$ 

listened  to  the  testimony  of  the  witnesses,  to  the  the- 
ory of  the  prosecution,  to  the  theory  of  the  counsel  for 
the  defence ;  you  have  heard  the  statement  of  the 
accused,  her  repeated  denial  of  the  crime  with  which 
she  stands  charged  ;  and  finally  you  have  heard  the 
arguments  of  counsel,  the  summing  up  of  all  the  evi 
dence.  The  peculiar  character  of  some  of  the  facts 
presented  as  proof,  requires  on  your  part  the  keenest 
and  most  exhaustive  analysis  of  the  inferences  to  be 
drawn  from  them,  and  you  '  have  need  of  patience,  wis- 
dom and  courage.'  While  it  is  impossible  that  you  can 
contemplate  the  distressing  condition  of  the  accused 
without  emotions  of  profound  compassion,  your  duty 
'  is  prescribed  by  the  law,  which  allows  you  no  liberty 
to  indulge  any  sentiment,  inconsistent  with  its  strict 
performance."  You  should  begin  with  the  legal  pre- 
sumption that  the  prisoner  is  innocent,  and  that  pre- 
sumption must  continue,  until  her  guilt  is  satisfactorily 
proved.  This  is  the  legal  right  of  the  prisoner; 
contingent  on  no  peculiar  circumstances  of  any  par- 
ticular case,  but  is  the  common  right  of  every  person 
accused  of  a  crime.  The  law  surrounds  the  prisoner 
with  a  coat  of  mail,  that  only  irrefragable  proofs  of 
guilt  can  pierce,  and  the  law  declares  her  innocent, 
unless  the  proof  you  have  heard  on  her  trial  satisfies 
you,  beyond  a  reasonable  doubt,  that  she  is  guilty. 
What  constitutes  reasonable  doubt,  it  becomes  your 
duty  to  earnestly  and  carefully  consider.  It  is  charged 
that  the  defendant,  on  the  night  of  the  twenty-sixth  of 
October,  did  wilfully,  deliberately  and  premeditatedly 
murder  Robert  Luke  Darrington,  by  striking  him 
with  a  brass  andiron.  The  legal  definition  of  murder 
is  the  unlawful  killing  of  another,  with  malice  afore- 
thought ;  and  is  divided  into  two  degrees.  Any 
murder  committed  knowingly,  intentionally  and  wan- 
tonly, and  without  just  cause  or  excuse,  is  murder  in 
the  first  degree ;  and  this  is  the  offence  charged 
against  the  prisoner  at  the  bar.  If  you  believe  from 
the  evidence,  that  the  defendant,  Beryl  Brentano,  did 
at  the  time  and  place  named,  wilfully  and  premedi- 
tatedly kill  Robert  Luke  Darrington,  then  it  will  be- 
come your  duty  to  find  the  defendant  guilty  of  murder ; 
if  you  do  not  so  believe,  then  it  will  be  your  duty  to 
acquit  her.  A  copy  of  the  legal  definition  of  homicide, 


224  THE  TRIAL  OF  BERYL. 

embracing  murder  in  the  first  and  second  degrees,  and 
of  manslaughter  in  the  first  and  second  degrees,  will 
be  furnished  for  your  instruction  ;  and  it  is  your  right 
and  privilege  after  a  careful  examination  of  all  the 
evidence,  to  convict  of  a  lesser  crime  than  that 
charged  in  the  indictment,  provided  all  the  evidence  in 
this  case,  should  so  convince  your  minds,  to  the  exclu- 
sion of  a  reasonable  doubt. 

"  In  your  deliberations  you  will  constantly  bear  in 
memory,  the  following  long  established  rules  provided 
for  the  guidance  of  jurors  : 

"  '  I. — The  burden  of  proof  rests  upon  the  prosecu- 
tion, and  does  not  shift  or  change  to  the  defendant  in 
any  phase  or  stage  of  the  case. 

"  '  II. — Before  the  jury  can  convict  the  accused,  they 
must  be  satisfied  from  the  evidence  that  she  is  guilty 
of  the  offence  charged  in  the  indictment,  beyond  a 
reasonable  doubt.  It  is  not  sufficient  that  they  should 
believe  her  guilt  only  probable.  No  degree  of  proba 
bility  merely,  will  authorize  a  conviction ;  but  the  evi- 
dence must  be  of  such  character  and  tendency  as  to 
produce  a  moral  certainty  of  the  prisoner's  guilt,  to 
the  exclusion  of  reasonable  doubt. 

"  '  III. — Each  fact  which  is  necessary  in  the  chain  of 
circumstances  to  establish  the  guilt  of  the  accused, 
must  be  distinctly  proved  by  competent  legal  evidence, 
and  if  the  jury  have  reasonable  doubt  as  to  any  ma- 
terial fact,  necessary  to  be  proved  in  order  to  support 
the  hypothesis  of  the  prisoner's  guilt,  to  the  exclusion 
of  every  other  reasonable  hypothesis,  they  must  find 
her  not  guilty. 

"  '  IV. — If  the  jury  are  satisfied  from  the  evidence, 
that  the  accused  is  guilty  of  the  offence  charged,  beyond 
reasonable  doubt,  and  no  rational  hypothesis  or  ex- 
planation can  be  framed  or  given  (upon  the  whole  evi- 
dence in  the  cause)  consistent  with  the  innocence  of  the 
accused,  and  at  the  same  time  consistent  with  the  facts 
proved,  they  ought  to  find  her  guilty.  The  jury  are  the 
exclusive  judges  of  the  evidence,  of  its  weight,  and  of 
the  credibility  of  the  witnesses.  It  is  their  duty  to 
accept  and  be  governed  by  the  law,  as  given  by  the 
Court  in  its  instructions.' 

"The  evidence  in  this  case  is  not  direct  and  positive, 
but  presumptive  ;  and  your  attention  has  been  called 


BY  AUGUSTA  EVANS  WILSON.  22$ 

to  some  well  known  cases  of  persons  convicted  of,  and 
executed  for  capital  crimes,  whose  entire  innocence  was 
subsequently  made  apparent.  These  arguments  and 
cases  only  prove  that,  '  all  human  evidence,  whether  it 
be  positive  or  presumptive  in  its  character,  like  every- 
thing else  that  partakes  of  mortality,  is  fallible.  The 
reason  may  be  as  completely  convinced  by  circumstan- 
tial— as  by  positive  evidence,  and  yet  may  possibly  not 
arrive  at  the  truth  by  either.' 

"The  true  question,  therefore,  for  your  considera- 
tion, is  not  the  kind  of  evidence  in  this  case,  but  it  is, 
what  is  the  result  of  it  in  your  minds  ?  If  it  has  failed 
to  satisfy  you  of  the  guilt  of  the  accused,  and  your 
minds  are  not  convinced,  vacillate  in  doubt,  then  you 
must  acquit  her,  be  the  evidence  what  it  may,  positive 
or  presumptive  ;  but  if  the  result  of  the  whole  evidence 
satisfies  you,  if  you  are  convinced  that  she  is  guilty, 
then  it  is  imperatively  your  duty  to  convict  her,  even  if 
the  character  of  the  evidence  be  wholly  circumstan- 
tial.' Such  is  the  law. 

"  In  resigning  this  case  to  you,  I  deem  it  my  duty  to 
direct  your  attention  to  one  point,  which  I  suggest  that 
you  consider.  If  the  accused  administered  chloroform, 
did  it  indicate  that  her  original  intention  was  solely  to 
rob  the  vault?  Is  the  act  of  administering  the  chloro- 
form consistent  with  the  theory  of  deliberate  and  pre- 
meditated murder  ?  In  examining  the  facts  submitted 
by  counsel,  take  the  suggestion  just  presented,  with 
you,  and  if  the  facts  and  circumstances  proved  against 
her,  can  be  accounted  for  on  the  theory  of  intended, 
deliberate  robbery,  without  necessarily  involving  pre- 
meditated murder,  it  is  your  privilege  to  put  that  mer- 
ciful construction  upon  them. 

"Gentlemen  of  the  jury,  I  commit  this  mournful  and 
terrible  case  to  your  decision  ;  and  solemnly  adjure 
you  to  be  governed  in  your  deliberations,  by  the  evi- 
dence as  you  understand  it,  by  the  law  as  furnished  in 
these  instructions,  and  to  render  such  verdict,  as  your 
reason  compels,  as  your  matured  judgment  demands, 
and  your  conscience  unhesitatingly  approves  and  sanc- 
tions. May  God  direct  and  control  your  decision." 

Drifting    along     the      stream    of     testimony      that 
rolled  in  front  of  the  jury-box,  an  eager  and  excited 
15 


226  THE  TRIAL  OF  BERYL. 

public  had  with  scarcely  a  dissenting  voice  arrived  at 
the  conclusion,  that  the  verdict  was  narrowed  to  the 
limits  of  only  two  possibilities.  It  was  confidently 
expected  that  the  jury  would  either  acquit  uncondition- 
ally, or  fail  to  agree  ;  thus  prolonging  suspense,  by  a 
mistrial.  It  was  six  o'clock  when  the  jurors,  bearing 
the  andiron,  handkerchief,  pipe,  and  a  diagram  of  the 
bedroom  at  "  Elm  Bluff,"  were  led  away  to  their  final 
deliberation  ;  yet  so  well  assured  was  the  mass  of  spec- 
tators, that  they  would  promptly  return  to  render  a 
favorable  verdict,  that  despite  the  inclemency  of  the 
weather,  there  was  no  perceptible  diminution  of  the 
anxious  crowd  of  men  and  women. 

The  night  had  settled  prematurely  down,  black  and 
stormy;  and  though  the  fury  of  the  gale  seemed  at  one 
time  to  have  spent  itself,  the  wind  veered  to  the 
implacable  east,  and  instead  of  fitful  gusts,  a  steady 
roaring  blast  freighted  with  rain  smote  the  darkness. 
The  officer  conducted  his  prisoner  across  the  dim  cor- 
ridor, and  opened  the  door  of  the  small  anteroom 
which  frequent  occupancy  had  rendered  gloomily 
familiar. 

"  I  wish  I  could  make  you  more  comfortable,  and  it 
is  a  shame  to  shut  you  up  in  such  an  ice-box.  I  will 
throw  my  overcoat  on  the  floor,  and  you  can  wrap  your 
feet  up  in  it.  Yes,  you  must  take  it.  I  shall  keep 
warm  at  the  stove  in  the  Sheriff's  room.  The  Judge 
will  not  wait  later  than  ten  o'clock,  then  I'll  take  you 
back  to  Mrs.  Singleton.  It  seems  you  prefer  to  re- 
main here  alone." 

"  Yes,  entirely  alone." 

"You  are  positive,  you  won't  try  a  little  hot  punch, 
or  a  glass  of  wine  ?  " 

"  Thank  you,  but  I  wish  only  to  be  alone." 

"  Don't  be  too  down-hearted.  You  will  never  be 
convicted  under  that  indictment,  at  least  not  by  this 
jury,  for  I  have  a  suspicion  that  there  is  one  man 
among  them,  who  will  stand  out  until  the  stars  fall, 
and  I  will  tell  you  why.  I  happened  to  be  looking  at 
him,  when  your  Christinas  card  was  shown  by  Mr. 
Dunbar.  The  moment  he  saw  it,  he  started,  stretched 
out  his  hand,  and  as  he  looked  at  it,  I  saw  him  choke 
up,  and  pass  his  hand  over  his  eyes.  Soon  after 
Christmas,  that  man  lost  his  only  child,  a  girl  five 


BY  AUGUSTA  EVANS  WILSON.  22/ 

years  old,  who  had  scarlet  fever.  To  divert  her  mind, 
they  gave  her  a  Christmas  card  to  play  with,  that  some 
friend  had  sent  to  her  mother.  She  had  it  in  her  hand 
when  she  died,  in  convulsions,  and  it  was  put  in  her 
coffin  and  buried  with  her.  My  wife  helped  to  nurse 
and  shroud  her,  and  she  told  me  it  was  the  card  shown 
in  court ;  it  was  your  card.  The  law  can't  cut  out  the 
heartstrings  of  the  jury,  and  I  don't  believe  that  man 
would  lift  his  hand  against  your  life,  any  sooner  than 
he  would  strike  the  face  of  his  dead  child." 

He  locked  the  door,  and  Beryl  found  herself  at  last 
alone,  in  the  dreary  little  den  where  a  single  gas 
burner  served  only  to  show  the  surrounding  cheerless- 
ness.  The  furniture  comprised  a  wooden  bench  along 
the  wall,  two  chairs,  and  a  table  in  the  middle  of  the 
floor  ;  and  on  the  dusty  panes  of  the  grated  window,  a 
ray  of  ruddy  light  from  a  lamp  post  in  the  street  be- 
neath, broke  through  the  leaden  lances  of  the  rain,  and 
struggled  for  admission. 

The  neurotic  pharmacopoeia  contains  nothing  so 
potent  as  despair  to  steady  quivering  nerves,  and  steel 
to  superhuman  endurance.  For  Beryl,  the  pendulum 
of  suspense  had  ceased  to  swing,  because  the  spring  of 
hope  had  snapped ;  and  the  complete  surrender,  the 
mute  acceptance  of  the  worst  possible  to  come,  had 
left  her  numb,  impervious  to  dread.  As  one  by  one 
the  discovered  facts  spelled  unmistakably  the  name  of 
her  brother,  allowing  no  margin  to  doubt  his  guilt,  the 
necessity  of  atonement  absorbed  every  other  considera- 
tion ;  and  the  desire  to  avert  his  punishment  extin- 
guished the  last  remnant  of  selfish  anxiety.  If  by 
suffering  in  his  stead,  she  could  secure  to  him  life — the 
opportunities  of  repentance,  of  expiation,  of  making 
his  peace  with  God,  of  saving  his  immortal  soul — how 
insignificant  seemed  all  else.  The  innate  love  of  life, 
the  natural  yearning  for  happiness,  the  once  fervent 
aspirations  for  fame — the  indescribable  longing  for  the 
fruition  of  youth's  high  hopes,  which  like  a  Siren  sang 
somewhere  in  the  golden  mists  of  futurity — all  these 
were  now  crushed  beyond  recognition  in  the  whirlwind 
that  had  wrecked  her. 

Her  father  slept  under  silvery  olives  in  a  Tuscan 
dell,  her  mother  within  hearing  of  the  waves  that  broke 
on  the  Atlantic  shore ;  and  if  the  wanderer  could  be 


228  THE  TRIAL  OF  BERYL. 

purified  by  penitential  tears,  what  mattered  the  shatter- 
ing of  the  family  circle  on  earth,  when  in  the  eternal 
Beyond,  it  would  be  indissolubly  reformed?  Over  the 
black  gulf  that  yawned  in  her  young,  pure  life,  the 
wings  of  her  Christian  faith  bore  her  steadily,  unwaver- 
ingly to  the  heavenly  rest,  that  she  knew  remained  for 
the  people  of  God  ,  and  so,  she  seemed  to  have  shaken 
hands  with  the  things  of  time  and  earth,  and  to  stand 
on  the  border  land,  girded  for  departure.  To  meet  her 
beloved  dead,  with  the  blessed  announcement  that 
Bertie  must  join  them  after  a  while,  because  she  had 
ransomed  his  precious  soul ;  and  that  the  family  would 
be  complete  under  the  heavenly  roof,  was  recompense 
so  rich,  that  the  fangs  of  disgrace,  of  physical  and 
mental  torture  were  effectually  extracted.  Bv  day  and 
by  night  the  ladder  of  prayer  lifted  her  soul  into  that 
serene  realm,  where  the  fountains  of  balm  are  never 
drained;  and  into  her  face  stole  the  reflection  of  that 
peace  which  only  communion  with  the  Christian's  God 
can  bring  to  those  whom  grief  has  claimed  for  its  own. 

To-night,  as  she  listened  to  the  Coronach  chanted 
by  the  gale,  and  the  dismal  accompaniment  of  the 
pelting  rain,  she  realized  how  utterly  isolated  was  her 
position,  and  kneeling  on  the  bare  floor,  crossed  her 
arms  on  the  table,  bowed  her  head  upon  them,  and 
prayed  for  patience  and  strength.  The  ordeal  had 
been  fiery,  but  the  end  was  at  hand,  and  release  must 
be  near. 

She  heard  quick  steps  in  the  corridor,  and  the  key 
was  turned  in  the  lock.  Had  the  jury  so  promptly 
decided  to  destroy  her  ?  For  an  instant  only,  she 
shut  her  eyes  ;  and  when  she  opened  them,  Mr.  Dun- 
bar  was  leaning  over  her,  folding  closely  about  her 
shoulders  some  heavy  wrap,  whose  soft  fur  collar  his 
fingers  buttoned  around  her  throat.  She  had  not 
known  that  she  was  cold,  until  the  delicious  sensation 
of  warmth  crept  like  a  caressing  touch  over  her  chilled 
limbs.  She  did  not  stir,  and  neither  spoke  ;  but  after 
a  moment  he  turned  toward  the  door  ;  then  she  rose. 

"  There  is  something  I  wish  to  say,  and  this  is  my 
last  opportunity,  as  after  to-night  we  shall  not  meet 
again.  During  the  past  four  months  I  have  said  harsh, 
bitter  things  to  you,  and  have  unjustly  judged  you. 
In  grateful  recognition  of  all  that  you  have  so  faithfully 


BY  AUGUSTA  EVANS  WILSON.  229 

essayed  to  accomplish  in  my  behalf,  I  ask  you  now  to 
forget  everything  but  my  gratitude  for  your  effort  to 
save  me ;  and  i  offer  my  hand  to  you,  as  the  one 
friend  who  sacrificed  even  his  manly  pride,  and  en- 
dured humiliation  in  order  to  redress  my  wrongs.  I 
thank  you  very  sincerely,  Mr.  Dunbar." 

He  took  her  outstretched  hand,  pressed  it  against 
his  cheek,  his  eyes,  held  it  to  his  lips  ;  then  a  half 
smothered  groan  escaped  him,  and  afraid  to  trust  him- 
self, he  went  quickly  out. 

Believing  that  she  stood  on  the  confines  of  another 
world,  she  had  possessed  her  soul  in  patience,  waiting 
for  the  consummation  of  the  sacrifice  ;  yet  at  the  crisis 
of  her  fate,  that  singular,  incomprehensible  influence, 
long  resisted,  drew  her  thoughts  to  him,  whom  she 
regarded  as  the  chosen  puppet  of  destiny  to  hurry  her 
into  an  untimely  grave.  She  had  fought  the  battle 
with  him,  under  fearful  odds  ;  conscious  of  sedition  in 
the  heart  that  defied  him,  warily  clutching  with  one 
hand  the  throat  of  rebellion  in  her  citadel,  while  with 
the  other,  she  parried  assault. 

Keeping  lonely  vigil,  amid  the  strewn  wreck  of  life 
and  hope,  she  had  waved  away  one  persistent  thought, 
that  lit  up  the  blackness  with  a  sudden  glory,  that 
came  with  the  face  of  an  angel  of  light,  and  babbled 
with  the  silvery  tongue  of  sorcery.  As  far  as  her  future 
was  concerned,  this  world  had  practically  come  to  a 
premature  end ;  but  above  the  roar  of  ruin,  and  out 
of  the  yawning  graves  of  slaughtered  possibilities, 
rose  and  rang  the  challenge:  If  she  had  never  come 
South,  if  she  could  have  been  allowed  the  chance  of 
happiness  that  seemed  every  woman's  birthright,  if  she 
had  met  and  known  Mr.  Dunbar,  before  he  was 
pledged  to  another;  what  then?  If  she  were  once 
more  the  Beryl  of  old,  and  he  were  free  ?  If?  What 
necromancy  so  wonderful,  as  the  potentiality  of  if? 
Weighed  in  that  popular  balance — appearances — how 
stood  the  poor  friendless  prisoner,  loaded  with  suspi- 
cion, tarnished  with  obloquy,  on  the  verge  of  an 
ignominious  death  ;  in  comparison  with  the  fair,  proud 
heiress,  dowered  with  blue  blood,  powerful  in  patrician 
influence,  rich  in  all  that  made  her  the  envy  of  her 
social  world  ? 

In  the  dazzling  zenith  of  temporal  prosperity,  Leo 


230  THE  TRIAL  OF  BERYL. 

Gordon  considered  the  heart  of  her  betrothed  her 
most  precious  possession  ;  the  one  jewel  which  she 
would  gladly  have  given  all  else  to  preserve ;  and 
yet,  fate  tore  it  from  her  grasp,  and  laid  it  at  the 
feet,  nay  thrust  it  into  the  white  hand  of  the  woman 
who  must  die  for  a  fiendish  crime.  A  latter-day  seer 
tells  us,  that  in  all  realms,  "  Between  laws  there  is  no 
analogy,  there  is  Continuity ;  "  then  in  the  universe  of 
ethical  sociology,  who  shall  trace  the  illimitable  rami- 
fications of  the  Law  of  Compensation  ? 

Up  and  down,  back  and  forth,  slowly,  wearily 
walked  the  prisoner ;  and  when  the  town  clock  struck 
eight,  she  mechanically  counted  each  stroke.  As  in 
drowning  men,  the  landmarks  of  a  lifetime  rise,  hud- 
dle, almost  press  upon  the  glazing  eyes,  so  the  phan- 
tasmagoria of  Beryl's  past,  seemed  projected  in  strange 
luminousness  upon  the  pall  of  the  present,  like  profiles 
in  silvery  flame  cast  on  a  black  curtain. 

Holding  her  father's  hand,  she  walked  in  the  Oden- 
wald  ;  sitting  beside  her  mother  on  a  carpet  of  purple 
vetches,  she  stemmed  strawberries  in  a  garden  near 
Pistoja;  clinging  to  Bertie's  jacket,  she  followed  him 
across  dimpling  sands  to  dip  her  feet  in  the  blue  Medi- 
terranean waves,  that  broke  in  laughter,  showing  teeth 
of  foam,  where  dying  sunsets  reddened  all  the  beach. 
Through  sunny  arcades,  flushed  with  pomegranate 
glowing  with  orange,  silvered  with  lemon  blossoms, 
came  the  tinkling  music  of  contadini  bells,  the  bleating 
of  kids,  the  twittering  of  happy  birds,  the  distant 
chime  of  an  Angelus ;  all  the  subtle  harmony,  the 
fragmentary  melody  that  flickers  through  an  Im- 
promptu of  Chopin  or  Schubert.  She  saw  the  simul- 
acrum of  her  former  self,  the  proud,  happy  Beryl  of 
old,  singing  from  the  score  of  the  "  Messiah,"  in  the 
organ  loft  of  a  marble  church  ;  she  heard  the  rich 
tenor  voice  of  her  handsome  brother,  as  he  trilled  a 
barcarole one  night,  crossing  the  Atlantic;  she  smelled 
the  tuberoses  at  Mentone,  the  faint  breath  of  lilies, 
her  father  had  loved  so  well,  and  then,  blotting  all 
else,  there  rose  clear  as  some  line  of  Morghen's,  that 
attic  room  ;  the  invalid's  bed,  the  low  chair  beside  it, 
the  wasted  figure,  the  suffering,  fever-flushed  face  of 
the  beloved  mother,  as  she  saw  her  last,  with  the 
Grand  Duke  jasmine  fastened  at  her  throat. 


B  Y  A  UG  USTA  E  VANS  WILSON.  2  3 1 

The  door  was  thrown  open,  and  the  officer  beckoned 
her  to  follow  him.  Back  iiuo  the  croudcd  court-room 
where  people  pressed  even  iiuo  the  \undow  sills  for 
standing  room,  where  Judge  and  counsel  sat  gravely 
expectant ;  where  the  stillness  of  death  had  suddenly 
i alien.  The  officers  conducted  her  to  the  bar,  then 
ilrew  back,  and  Mr.  Dunbar  came  and  stood  at  her 
aide,  resting  his  hand  on  the  back  of  her  chair. 

In  that  solemn  hush,  the  measured  tramp  of  the  jury 
advancing,  and  riling  into  their  box,  had  the  mournful 
measured  beat  as  of  pall  bearers,  keeping  step  to  a  dismal 
dirge  ;  and  when  the  foreman  laid  upon  the  table  the 
fatal  brass  unicorn,  the  muffled  sound  seemed  ominous 
as  the  grating  of  a  coffin  lowered  upon  the  cross  bars 
of  a  gaping  grave.  As  the  roll  was  called,  each  man 
rose,  and  answered  in  a  low  but  distinct  tone.  Then 
the  clerk  of  the  court  asked  : 

"  Gentlemen  of  the  jury,  have  you  agreed  upon  your 
verdict  ? " 

"  We  have,"  replied  the  foreman. 

"  What  say  you  !  Guilty,  or  not  guilty  ?  " 

Beryl  had  risen,  and  the  gaslight  shining  full  upon 
her  pale,  Phidian  face,  showed  no  trace  of  trepidation. 
Only  the  pathetic  patience  of  a  sublime  surrender  was 
visible  on  the  frozen  features;  the  eyes  pretei naturally 
large  and  luminous  were  raised  far  above  the  sea  of 
heads,  and  their  strained  gaze  might  almost  have  been 
fixed  upon  the  unveiled  face  of  the  God  she  trusted. 
Her  hands  were  folded  over  her  mother's  ring,  her 
noble  head  thrown  proudly  back. 

"  We  the  jury,  in  the  case  of  the  State  against  Beryl 
Brentano,  find  defendant  not  guilty  as  charged  in  the 
indictment ;  but  guilty  of  manslaughter  in  the  first 
degree,  and  we  do  earnestly  commend  her  to  the 
mercy  of  the  Court." 

The  girl  staggered  slightly,  as  if  recoiling  from  a 
blow,  and  Mr.  Dunbar  caught  her  arm,  steadied  her. 
The  long  pent  tide  of  popular  feeling  broke  its  barriers, 
and  the  gates  of  Pandemonium  seemed  to  swing  open. 
Women  sobbed ;  men  groaned.  In  vain  the  Judge 
thundered  "  Silence,"  "  Order  !  "  and  not  until  an 
officer  advanced  to  obey  the  command,  to  clear  the 
court-room,  was  there  any  perceptible  lull,  in  the  storm 
of  indignation. 


232  THE  TRIAL  OF  BERYL. 

Turning  to  the  Judge,  Mr.  Dunbar  said : 

"  In  behalf  of  the  prisoner,  I  most  respectfully  beg 
that  the  Court  will  end  her  suspense  ;  and  render  her 
return  to  this  bar  unnecessary  by  promptly  pronounc- 
ing sentence." 

"  Is  it  the  wish  of  the  prisoner,  that  sentence  should 
not  be  delayed  ? " 

"  She  wishes  to  know  her  fate." 

She  had  uttered  no  sound,  but  the  lashes  trembled, 
fell  over  the  tired,  aching,  strained  eyes  ;  and  lifting 
her  locked  hands  she  bowed  her  chin  upon  them. 

Some  moments  elapsed,  before  Judge  Parkman 
spoke ;  then  his  voice  was  low  and  solemn. 

"  Beryl  Brentano,  you  have  been  indicted  for  the  de- 
liberate and  premeditated  murder  of  your  grandfather, 
Robert  Luke  Darrington.  Twelve  men,  selected  for 
their,  intelligence  and  impartiality,  have  patiently  and 
attentively  listened  to  the  evidence  in  this  case,  and 
have  under  oath  endeavored  to  discover  the  truth  of 
this  charge.  You  have  had  the  benefit  of  a  fair  trial, 
by  unbiased  judges,  and  finally,  the  jury  in  the  con- 
scientious discharge  of  their  duty,  have  convicted  you 
of  manslaughter  in  the  first  degree,  and  commended 
you  to  the  mercy  of  the  Court.  In  consideration  of 
your  youth,  of  the  peculiar  circumstances  surrounding 
you,  and  especially,  in  deference  to  the  wishes  and 
recommendation  of  the  jury — whose  verdict,  the  Court 
approves,  I  therefore  pronounce  upon  you  the  lightest 
penalty  which  the  law  affixes  to  the  crime  of  man- 
slaughter, of  which  you  stand  convicted ;  which  sen- 
tence is — that  you  be  taken  hence  to  the  State  Peniten- 
tiary, and  there  be  kept  securely,  for  the  term  of  five 
years." 

With  a  swift  movement,  Mr.  Dunbar  drew  the  crape 
veil  over  her  face,  put  her  arm  through  his,  and  led  her 
into  the  corridor.  Hurriedly  he  exchanged  some  words 
in  an  undertone  with  the  two  officers,  who  accompanied 
him  to  the  rear  entrance  of  the  court-house ;  and  then, 
in  answer  to  a  shrill  whistle,  a  close  carriage  drawn  by 
two  horses  drew  up  to  the  door,  followed  by  the  dismal 
equipage  set  apart  for  the  transportation  of  prisoners. 
The  deputy  sheriff  stepped  forward,  trying  to  shield 
the  girl  from  the  driving  rain,  and  assisted  her  into 
the  carriage.  Mr.  Dunbar  sprang  in  and  seated  him- 


BY  AUGUSTA  E VANS  WILSON.  233 

self  opposite.  The  officer  closed  the  door,  ordered 
the  coachman  to  drive  on,  and  then  entering  the 
gloomy  black  box,  followed  closely,  keeping  always  in 
sight  of  the  vehicle  in  advance. 

The  clock  striking  ten,  sounded  through  the  muffling 
storm  a  knell  as  mournful  as  some  tolling  bell,  while 
into  that  wild,  moaning  Friday  night,  went  the  desolate 
woman,  wearing  henceforth  the  brand  of  Cain — re- 
manded to  the  convict's  home. 

She  had  thrown  back  her  veil  to  ease  the  stifling 
sensation  in  her  throat,  and  Mr.  Dunbar  could  see  now 
and  then,  as  they  dashed  past  a  street  lamp,  that  she 
sat  upright,  still  as  stone. 

At  last  she  said,  in  a  tone  peculiarly  calm,  like  that 
of  one  talking  in  sleep  : 

"  What  did  it  mean — that  verdict  ?  " 

"  That  you  went  back  to  '  Elm  Bluff'  with  no  inten- 
tion of  attacking  General  Darrington.' 

"  That  I  went  there  deliberately  to  steal,  and  then 
to  avoid  detection,  killed  him  ?  That  was  the  verdict 
of  the  jury? " 

She  waited  a  moment. 

"  Answer  me.  That  was  the  meaning  ?  That  was 
the  most  merciful  verdict  they  could  give  to  the 
world  ? " 

Only  the  hissing  sound  of  the  rain  upon  the  glass 
pane  of  the  carriage,  made  reply. 

They  had  reached  the  bridge,  when  a  hysterical 
laugh  startled  the  man,  who  leaned  back  on  the  front 
seat,  with  his  arms  crossed  tightly  over  a  heart  throb- 
bing with  almost  unendurable  pain. 

"  To  steal,  to  rob,  to  plunder.  Branded  for  all  time 
a  thief,  a  rogue,  a  murderess.  I  ! — I — " 

A  passionate  wail  told  the  strain  was  broken  :  "  I, 
my  father's  darling,  my  father's  Beryl!  Hurled  into  a 
living  tomb,  herded  with  convicts,  with  the  vilest  out- 
casts that  disgrace  the  earth — this  is  worse  than  a 
thousand  deaths  !  It  would  have  been  so  merciful  to 
crush  out  the  life  they  mangled ;  but  to  doom  me  to 
the  slow  torture  of  this  loathsome  grave,  where  death 
brings  no  release  !  To  die  is  so  easy,  so  blessed ;  but 
to  live — a  convicted  felon  !  O,  my  God  !  my  God ! 
Hast  Thou  indeed  forsaken  me  ?  " 

In  the  appalling  realization  of  her  fate,  she  rocked 


234  THE  TRIAL  OF  BERYL. 

to  and  fro  for  a  moment  only,  fiercely  shaken  by  the 
horror  of  a  future  never  before  contemplated.  Then 
the  proud  soul  stifled  its  shuddering  sigh,  lifted  its 
burden  of  shame,  silently  struggled  up  its  awful  Via 
Crucis.  Mute  and  still,  she  leaned  back  in  the  corner 
of  the  carriage. 

"  I  could  have  saved  you,  but  you  would  not  accept 
deliverance.  You  thwarted  every  effort,  tied  the  hands 
that  might  have  set  you  free  ;  and  by  your  own  pre- 
meditated course  throughout  the  trial,  deliberately 
dragged  this  doom  down  upon  your  head.  You 
counted  the  cost,  and  you  elected,  chose  of  your  own 
free  will  to  offer  yourself  as  a  sacrifice,  to  the  law,  for 
the  crime  of  another.  You  are  your  own  merciless 
fate,  decreeing  self-immolation.  You  were  willing  to 
die  in  order  to  save  that  man's  life ;  and  you  can  cer- 
tainly summon  fortitude  to  endure  five  years'  deprivation 
of  his  society;  sustained  by  the  hope  that  having  there- 
by purchased  his  security,  you  may  yet  reap  the  reward 
your  heart  demands,  reunion  with  its  worthless,  de- 
graded idol.  I  have  watched,  weighed,  studied  you ; 
searched  every  stray  record  of  your  fair  young  life, 
found  the  clear  pages  all  pure ;  and  I  have  doubted, 
marvelled  that  you,  lily-hearted,  lily-souled,  lily-handed, 
could  cast  the  pearl  of  your  love  down  in  the  mire,  to 
be  trampled  by  swinish  feet." 

The  darkness  of  the  City  of  Dis  that  seemed  to  brood 
under  the  wings  of  the  stormy  night,  veiled  Beryl's 
face  ;  and  her  silence  goaded  him  beyond  the  limits  of 
prudence,  which  he  had  warily  surveyed  for  himself. 

"  Day  and  night,  I  hear  the  maddening  echo  of  your 
accusing  cry,  '  You  have  ruined  my  life  ! '  God  knows, 
you  have  as  effectually  ruined  mine.  You  have  your 
revenge — if  it  comfort  you  to  know  it;  but  I  am  inca- 
pable of  your  sublime  renunciation.  I  am  no  patient 
martyr;  I  am,  instead,  an  intensely  selfish  man.  You 
choose  to  hug  the  ashes  of  desolation ;  I  purpose  to 
sweep  away  the  wreck,  to  rebuild  on  the  foundation  of 
one  hope,  which  all  the  legions  in  hell  cannot  shake. 
Between  you  and  me  the  battle  has  only  begun,  and 
nothing  but  your  death  or  my  victory  will  end  it.  You 
have  your  revenge ;  I  intend  to  enjoy  mine.  Though 
he  burrow  as  a  mole,  or  skulk  in  some  fastness  of 
Alaska,  I  will  track  and  seize  that  cowardly  miscreant, 


BY  A UGUSTA  E VANS  WILSON.  235 

and  when  the  law  receives  its  guilty  victim,  you  shall 
be  freed  from  suspicion,  freed  from  prison,  and  most 
precious  of  all  boons,  you  shall  be  freed  forever  from 
the  vile  contamination  of  his  polluting  touch.  For 
the  pangs  you  have  inflicted  on  me,  I  will  have  my 
revenge :  you  shall  never  be  profaned  by  the  name  of 
wife." 

Up  the  rocky  hill  toiled  the  horses,  arching  their 
necks  as  they  stooped  their  faces  to  avoid  the  blinding 
rain ;  and  soon  the  huge  blot  of  prison  walls,  like  a 
crouching  monster  ambushed  in  surrounding  gloom, 
barred  the  way. 

In  two  windows  of  the  second  story,  burned  lights 
that  borrowed  lurid  rays  in  their  passage  through  the 
mist,  and  seemed  to  glow  angrily,  like  the  red  eyes  of 
a  sullen  beast  of  prey.  The  carriage  stopped.  A 
moment  after,  the  deputy-sheriff  sprang  from  his  wagon 
and  rang  the  bell  close  to  the  great  gate.  Two  dogs 
bayed  hoarsely,  and  somewhere  in  the  building  an 
answering  bell  sounded. 

Beryl  leaned  forward. 

"  Mr.  Dunbar,  there  is  one  last  favor  I  ask  at  your 
hands.  I  want  my — my — I  want  that  pipe,  that  was 
shown  in  court.  Will  you  ask  that  it  may  be  given  to 
me  ?  Will  you  send  it  to  me  ?  " 

A  half  strangled,  scarcely  audible  oath  was  his  only 
reply. 

She  put  out  her  hand,  laid  it  on  his. 

"  You  have  caused  me  so  much  suffering,  surely  you 
will  not  deny  me  this  only  recompense  I  shall  ever 
ask." 

His  hand  closed  over  hers. 

"If  I  bring  it  to  you,  will  you  confess  who  smoked 
it  last?" 

"  After  to-night,  sir,  I  think  it  best  I  should  never 
see  your  face  again." 

The  officer  opened  the  carriage  door,  the  warden 
approached,  carrying  a  lantern  in  one  hand  and  an 
umbrella  in  the  other.  Mr.  Dunbar  stepped  from  the 
carriage  and  turning,  stretched  out  his  arms,  suddenly 
snatched  the  girl  for  an  instant  close  to  his  heart,  and 
lifted  her  to  the  ground. 

The  warden  opened  the  gate,  swinging  his  lantern 
high  to  light  the  way,  and  by  ils  flickering  rays  Lennox 


236  THE  TRIAL  OF  BERYL. 

Dun  bar  saw  the  beautiful   white  face,  the  wonderful, 
sad  eyes,  the  wan  lips  contracted  by  a  spasm  of  pain. 

She  turned  and  followed  the  warden ;  the  lights 
wavered  ;  the  great  iron  gate  swung  back  in  its  groove, 
the  bolt  fell  with  a  sullen  clang;  the  massive  key 
rattled,  a  chain  clanked,  and  all  was  darkness  as  she 
was  locked  irrevocably  into  her  living  tomb. 


"N  A  N." 


BY 


LOUISE  CHANDLER  MOULTON. 


LOUISE  CHANDLER  MOULTON. 


LOUISE  CHANDLER  was  born  in  Pomfret,  Conn,,  in 
1836.  She  was  educated  at  the  famous  seminary  in  Troy, 
N.  Y.,  then  conducted  by  Mrs.  Emma  Willard.  Her 
tendency  towards  the  profession  of  letters  developed 
itself  very  early.  At  fifteen  she  was  already  an  author- 
ess, writing  short  stories  under  the  nom  de  plume  of 
"  Ellen  Louise. "  Her  first  book  published  in  1854, 
"  This,  That  and  the  Other,"  proved  very  successful ; 
thus  before  she  was  twenty  she  found  herself  fairly 
launched  in  the  swiftly  growing  tide  of  fictitious  litera- 
ture. Other  stories  and  essays  rapidly  followed. 
"  Juno  Clifford "  was  a  full-grown  novel,  which  was 
published  anonymously  in  New  York  in  1855.  A 
volume  of  poems  published  in  Boston  had  preceded 
this  work.  A  collection  of  short  stories  with  the  odd 
title  of  "  My  Third  Book"  appeared  in  1859.  In  1873 
appeared  the  first  volume  of"  Bedtime  Stories  "  adapted 
for  children  ;  this  was  published  in  Boston  as  were  most 
of  those  which  succeeded  it.  In  1874  came  the  novel 
"  Some  Women's  Hearts "  :  then  another  volume  of 
the  "  Bedtime  Stories  "  in  1875  with  theliteralistic  title, 
"  Some  More  Bedtime  Stories."  Next  a  volume  of 
poems  in  1877  ;  and  the  succeeding  year  "  Swallow 
Flights  and  Other  Poems."  Then  another  book  for 
the  little  ones  called  "  New  Bedtime  stories,"  in  1880  ; 
"Random  Rambles,"  in  1881  ;  "Firelight  Stories"  in 
1883;  and  "Ourselves  and  Our  Neighbors,''  in  1887  ; 
in  the  same  year  she  also  edited,  and  prefaced  with  a 
biographical  sketch,  the  "  Golden  Secrets  of  Phillip 
Bourke  Marston. 

In  1855  Miss  Chandler  married  Mr.  William  U. 
Moulton,  who  was  also  a  litterateur  and  publisher  in 
Boston.  Mrs.  Moulton  was  for  some  time  Boston  cor- 
respondent for  the  New  York  Tribune,  and  when  in 
Europe  occasionally  wrote  letters  on  literary  and  social 
243 


244  LOUISE  CHANDLER  MOULTON. 

topics  for  that  and  other  papers  from  London  and  Paris. 
Mrs.  Moulton  is  a  delightful  writer  for  children — 
tender  and  sweet,  with  always  a  moral  aim  intended  to 
rouse  the  conscience  of  the  little  folks  against  their 
besetting  sins  and  childish  weaknesses ;  but  with  noth- 
ing of  the  didactic  in  style  so  repellent  to  many  young 
readers.  In  her  stories  for  children  of  a  larger  growth 
Mrs.  Moulton  develops  a  very  decided  tendency  to 
instruct  by  induction  ;  one  cannot  escape  from  the 
inferences  intended  to  be  drawn,  and  certainly  one 
idea  stands  out  very  prominently  in  a  number  of  her 
stories  and  it  is  one  which  experience  teaches  all  close 
observers  of  mental  and  moral  phenomena,  namely, 
that  Nature  always  punishes  human  mistakes  with  as 
much  certainty  and  precision  as  she  does  wilful  crimes. 
As  a  poet  Mrs.  Moulton  displays  that  fine  love  of 
natural  objects  which  appears  to  be  inseparable  from 
the  poetic  instinct,  and  the  didactic  tendency  in  some 
of  her  prose  works  entirely  disappears  when  she  sings 
out  her  thoughts,  her  loves,  her  fancies,  in  melodious 
verse. 


"NAN: 


A  NEW  ENGLAND  LOVE  STORY. 

"  I  hate  it  all,  oh,  how  I  hate  it !  " 

It  was  Nan  Allen  who  made  this  outburst,  sitting  in 
the  comfortable  "  sitting-room "  of  a  New  England 
farm-house,  and  rocking  to-and-fro  in  a  New  England 
rocking-chair.  Considering  how  the  world  wags  in 
general,  and  that  one  of  our  greatest  statisticians  has 
told  us  that  one  in  seven  of  the  inhabitants  of  Great 
Britain  dies  a  pauper,  it  would  not  seem  to  a  well- 
regulated  mind  that  Nan  had  much  to  complain  of. 
It  was  late  in  October.  The  "  fall-cleaning  "  was  over 
— stoves  were  set-up  in  the  many  rooms  of  Farmer 
Allen's  house,  cleanliness  reigned,  and  the  warmth 
within  defied  the  menaces  of  the  "hard  winter"  which 
every  one  was  predicting. 

The  look  of  homely  well-being,  without  one  ray  of 
beauty  to  brighten  it,  made  foolish  Nan's  very  heart 
siqk.  The  close  heat  of  the  air-tight  stove  went  to  her 
head,  and  she  sighed,  as  she  wondered  what  life 
meant.  Others  besides  herself  wondered  what  Nan 
Allen's  life  meant.  She  was  a  conundrum,  which  so 
far  no  one  had  taken  the  trouble  to  guess,  though  we 
have  all  seen  other  such  conundrums  in  plenty.  She 
was  the  daughter  of  parents  without  one  ray  of  imagi- 
nation. She  had  grown  up  in  a  home  where  the 
"  Evangelical  Family  Library  "  did  duty  for  literature, 
and  Fox's  "  Book  of  Martyrs  "  was  the  nearest  ap- 
proach to  a  romance.  And  yet  Nan  was  a  beauty- 
lover  and  a  dreamer.  I  doubt  if  under  the  most  favor- 
ing circumstances  she  could  have  written  a  book  or 
painted  a  picture.  Hers  was  the  sympathetic,  not  the 
creative,  imagination  ;  still  the  love  of  beauty  had  been 
245 


246  "  NAN." 

born  in  her.  Starved  into  silence  by  her  circum- 
stances, it  ached  on  her  heart. 

As  a  child  she  had  been  content  with  the  sunsets 
that  burned  the  western  hills,  the  roses  that  rioted  in 
the  old  garden  in  June,  the  sturdy  autumn-flowers  that 
lifted  their  haughty,  handsome  heads  to  face  the 
November  blasts.  She  had  been  what  the  New  Eng- 
land people  called  a  romp;  that  is,  she  had  climbed 
trees,  and  roamed  far  afield  after  berries,  tamed  squir- 
rels, and  coasted  down-hill  when  the  winter  had  glazed 
the  hillsides  with  snow  and  ice.  Occupied  with  these 
pleasures  she  had  failed  to  realize  the  barrenness  of 
her  home  life — the  utter  want  of  grace  and  beauty  in 
all  its  appointments.  But  one  day  the  bud  becomes  a 
flower,  and  one  day  Nan  ceased  to  be  a  child.  Then 
her  life  confronted  her  just  as  it  was — barren  and  nar- 
row and  monotonous,  and  with  no  apparent  hope  of 
better  days.  And  in  the  summer  just  past  she  had 
made  a  friend,  who  had  opened  to  her  a  glimpse  of 
another  world.  A  girl  not  much  older  than  Nan  her 
self  had  been  sent  to  Ryefield  to  board.  Miss  Amory 
was  not  very  strong,  and  while  her  mother  had  led  forth 
two  older  daughters  to  the  glories  of  conquest  at  Sara- 
toga and  afterwards  at  Newport,  the  family-doctor  had 
decreed  for  Blanche  a  quiet  summer,  and  had  per- 
suaded a  brother  physician  at  Ryefield  to  take  her  into 
his  family. 

In  some  of  Miss  Amory's  walks  she  had  met  Nan 
Allen,  and  suddenly  they  had  become  friends. 
Blanche  Amory,  with  her  patrician  grace,  her  fair  face 
and  her  perfect  toilets,  had  dawned  on  Nan  as  a  rev- 
elation of  what  life  might  be.  It  seemed  as  if  her 
very  dreams  had  taken  shape.  She  surrendered  her- 
self heart  and  soul  to  the  new-comer.  Miss  Amory,  in 
turn,  was  delighted  with  Nan,  in  something  the  same 
way  in  which  she  might  have  enjoyed  an  unaccustomed 
school  of  art,  a  fresh  musical  sensation,  a  new  country 
to  travel  in. 

She  had  never  before  seen  anything  like  this  girl,  so 
frank,  so  honest,  so  humble  yet  so  proud,  so  apprecia- 
tive yet  so  ignorant,  so  well-bred  yet  so  unaccustomed 
to  society.  Miss  Amory  from  Boston,  used  to  all 
things  and  tired  of  most,  read  this  new  page  of  human 
nature  with  ever-fresh  delight. 


BY  LOUISE  CHANDLER  MOULTOJV.  247 

From  tliis  young  high-priestess  cf  the  proper,  quick- 
witted Nan  caught  speedily  the  jargon  of  art 
and  of  society.  She  had  longed  vaguely,  hitherto, 
for  something  other  than  she  had  known.  Now  her 
desires  defined  themselves  ;  for  she  learned  what  she 
ought  to  wish  for.  Her  very  soul  hungered  within 
her  for  pictures  and  carvings  and  Turkish  rugs  and  old 
china,  and  the  other  things  which  all  seemed  common 
and  necessary  as  daily  bread  to  the  girl  from  Boston. 

Nan  used  to  wonder  how  Miss  Amory  would  endure 
life  at  Ryefield  when  the  short,  cold  days  should  come 
and  a  wildwood,  moss-carpeted  drawing-room  was  no 
longer  among  the  possibilities.  Would  this  patrician 
creature  be  able  to  endure  the  things  Nan's  own  soul 
loathed  ?  Happily  the  fair  Blanche  was  spared  the 
ordeal.  While  still  September  days  were  keeping  the 
world  warm,  Miss  Amory's  oldest  brother  came  to  take 
her  away  from  Ryefield. 

Of  course  Nan  Allen  saw  her  friend's  brother,  and 
in  Quincy  Amory  she,  a  second  time,  discovered  that 
her  unformed  ideal  had  taken  shape.  This,  then,  was 
what  a  man  should  be — so  polished,  so  graceful  and 
with  such  clothes  !  It  might  be  inglorious,  she  owned 
to  herself,  to  consider  the  clothes  ;  but  after  all,  they 
were  a  revelation,  and  they,  as  much  as  his  intonation, 
and  his  walk  emphasized  the  difference  between  Bos- 
ton and  Ryefield.  He  was  very  gracious  to  Nan — for 
his  sister's  sake,  no  doubt — but  he  could  not  help 
knowing  that  she  was  a  pretty  girl,  a  far  prettier  girl,  if 
the  truth  must  be  told,  than  even  Blanche  Amory. 

Miss  Amory  was  a  blonde,  tall,  slight,  with  clear 
blue  eyes,  well-cut  features  and  reposeful  manners — a 
kind  of  human  Easter  lily.  Nan  was  a  spicy  rose, 
(horny,  perhaps,  but  fragrant  and  provoking,  with  her 
dark,  curling  hair,  her  dark,  bright  eyes,  her  petite  fig- 
ure, her  red  lips  and  her  cheeks  like  the  sunny  side  of 
a  peach.  Quincy  Amory  quite  shared  his  sister's  re- 
gret when  they  bade  bonny  Nan  good-bye  at  the  Rye- 
field  station. 

That  parting  was  a  month  ago,  and  meantime  Octo- 
ber frosts  had  chilled  the  air,  and  the  vivid  autumn 
teaves  had  blown  down  with  the  gale,  and  Mrs.  Allen 
and  her  maid-of-all-work  had  done  the  fall  cleaning, 
and  here,  in  the  midst  of  all  the  comfortable,  common- 


248  "NAN." 

place,  unbeautiful  surroundings  which  her  soul  loathed, 
sat  Nan.  How  she  hated  the  rag-carpet  on  the  floor, 
and  the  mats  braided  out  of  the  old  clothes  which 
could  do  duty  as  garments  no  longer,  and  the  kerosene 
lamps,  round  which  their  betraying  odor  always  lin- 
gered, and  the  air-tight  stove,  and  the  mottoes  wrought 
in  worsted  work  that  hung  upon  the  wall.  Was  it  a 
sin  to  hate  it  all,  she  wondered  ?  Here,  to  be  sure, 
here  and  not  elsewhere,  her  lot  had  been  cast,  and  it 
might  be  that  she  ought  to  be  grateful  for  it. 

"  No,  that  is  too  much,"  she  said  aloud.  "  Patient, 
if  you  like  ;  but  grateful !  " 

And  just  then  John  Payne  came  in.  I  have  not 
mentioned  John,  because  Nan  had  thought  so  very 
little  about  him  during  the  past  summer.  And  yet  he 
had  been  a  part  of  her  life  ever  since  she  could  re- 
member. When  she  went  to  the  district  school  John, 
three  or  four  years  older  than  herself,  had  been  her 
companion.  John  had  brought  her  fruit  and  flowers, 
and  guided  her  sled  when  she  coasted,  and  waited  on 
her  whims  like  a  faithful  dog ;  and  she  had  taken  all 
John's  services  as  simply  and  as  much  as  if  they  were 
a  matter  of  right,  as  she  ate  her  breakfast.  But  when 
Miss  Amory  came  into  her  life  John  went  out  of  it. 
She  had  no  need  of  him,  then  ;  and  he  had  been  very 
busy  all  summer,  and  was  wise  enough  besides  to 
know  when  not  to  intrude. 

But  now  he  came  in,  in  the  October  afternoon,  to 
say  something  which  he  began  to  think  he  had  left  un- 
said too  long.  He  had  entered  by  the  back  way,  and 
had  seen  that  Mrs.  Allen  was  in  the  depths  of  sweet 
pickles.  He  was  therefore  not  likely  to  be  inter- 
rupted. Here  sat  Nan,  piquant,  wilful,  dark-eyed, 
rose-sweet  Nan,  with  a  look  on  her  face  which,  to  say 
the  least,  offered  no  vantage-ground  to  sentiment. 
Something  might  have  whispered  to  John  that  the 
occasion  was  not  favorable — but  though  he  was  coun- 
try bred  he  was,  after  all,  no  coward  ;  and  he  chose  to 
make  his  own  occasions  rather  than  wait  for  them. 
Nan  looked  up,  as  he  came  in,  somewhat  listlessly. 

"Ah!  Sit  down,  John.  No  doubt  the  stove  will 
make  your  head  ache.  It  does  mine  ;  but  we  must  get 
used  to  it." 

John  sat  down  ;    but  the  warmth  of  which  he  began 


BY  LOUISE  CHANDLER  MOULTON.  249 

to  speak  was  not  that  of  the  stove  ;  and  suddenly  Nan 
found  herself  listening  with  a  curious  interest,  while  he 
told  her  that  he  had  been  in  love  with  her  ever  since 
he  could  remember.  Nan  was  not  a  self-conscious 
girl ;  and  she  had  really  never  thought  of  John  Payne 
in  this  way.  She  looked  curiously  at  him  as  he  spoke. 
She  had  never  considered  what  he  was  like  before. 
He  was  a  strong,  resolute,  handsome  fellow.  There 
was  no  denying  that  he  was  handsomer  than  Quincy 
Amory.  But  then — his  coat !  And  his  hands  were 
hard,  and  there  was — yes,  there  was — the  slightest  sus- 
picion of  what  Mr.  Amory  would  have  called  a  Yankee 
twang  in  his  voice.  And  as  for  loving  him — why,  of 
course  she  loved  John  ;  she  always  had,  but  it  was  not 
in  that  way.  If  only  it  had  been  Quincy  Amory ! 

"Why,  I'm  sure  I  don't  know,  John,"  she  said  can- 
didly, when  his  "  winged  words  "  had  been  spoken. 
"  I  never  thought  of  your  feeling  like  this.  I  don't  see 
why  you  weren't  contented  to  go  on  just  as  we  always 
have.  That  was  nice  enough,  I'm  sure." 

"  Nice  enough  for  you,"  John  answered  firmly,  "but 
not  for  me.  It's  very  little  I've  seen  of  you  the  past 
summer,  and  I've  found  out  that  I  want  a  good  deal 
more." 

Nan  shook  her  curly  head  and  sat  for  a  space  deep 
in  consideration. 

"  I  don't  seem  able  to  think  it  out  quite  so  sud- 
denly," she  said.  "  Give  me  till  to-morrow.  Only  one 
thing,  John  ;  if  I  said  yes,  you  would  have  to  go  away 
from  here." 

"Yes?"  John  said  inquiringly. 

"  Yes,  certainly,  John.  I  dislike  rag-carpets — I  hate 
braided  mats — I  loathe  air-tight  stoves.  Life  here  is 
stagnation.  If  I — if  what  you  wish  were  ever  to  come 
to  pass,  it  could  not  be  until  after  you  had  made  a  life 
for  yourself  somewhere  else.  You  are  clever  enough 
for  that,  aren't  you,  John  ? "  and  she  looked  him  over 
reflectingly. 

"  Yes,  I  believe  I  am,"  he  answered  with  a  half 
vexed  laugh,  for  this  was  not  at  all  like  the  love  scene 
with  his  thornless  rose  which  he  had  pictured  to  him- 
self. "  I  had  sometimes  thought,  myself,  that  I  might 
make  a  broader  life  somewhere  else,  but  perhaps  I  was 


250  "NAN" 

too  impatient  to  win  my  wife  to  be  willing  to  go  away 
from  a  certainty,  and  wait,  Heaven  knows  how  long." 

*'  Well,  but,  John  dear,  that's  the  only  way  you  could 
win  me.  There  is  only  one  certainty,  and  that  is,  that 
I  will  not  live  here.  Now  go  away,  and  I'll  try  to 
think  it  all  out  by  to-morrow  night."' 

"  I've  been  asking  Nan  to  marry  me,"  John  said, 
pausing  in  the  kitchen  to  speak  to  Mrs.  Allen  on  the 
way  out. 

"  You  don't  say  so  !     Will  she  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  yet.     I  shall  find  out  to-morrow." 

And  John  Payne  went  his  way.  Mrs.  Allen  under- 
stood Nan  well  enough  not  to  speak  to  her — and  that 
night  the  girl  did  more  serious  thinking  than  she  had 
ever  done  before.  She  sent  her  thoughts  back  through 
her  seventeen  years  of  life,  and  she  found  John  Payne 
all  along  the  way.  She  was  very  used  to  John,  cer- 
tainly. But  did  she  love  him  ?  She  was  not  sure. 
Perhaps  she  felt  all  that  other  girls  did  who  married — 
and  it  was  only  the  same  thing  in  her  which  sighed  for 
impossible  rugs  and  pictures  and  old  china,  that  cried 
out  now  for  a  more  romantic  love,  a  more  dazzling 
lover.  Any  way,  no  one  but  John  was  likely  to  love 
her,  she  thought,  and  if  she  ever  were  to  get  out  of 
Ryefield,  it  must  be  by  means  of  his  taking  her.  With 
that  for  a  conclusion  to  her  thinking,  she  went  to  sleep. 

Late  in  the  next  afternoon  John  came  again. 

"Well?"  he  said,  standing  before  her  and  putting 
out  his  strong  hands. 

"  Oh,  sit  down,  John — you  make  me  nervous  stand- 
ing there.  I've  thought  it  all  out.  I'm  pretty  sure  I 
like  you  well  enough  ;  but  I  can't  stay  here.  It  must 
all  depend  on  whether  you  make  a  home  somewhere 
else." 

John's  eyes  grew  cold,  and  his  lips  stiffened  a  little. 

"  You  mean  that  you  will  promise  to  marry  me  after 
I  have  gone  out  into  '^  world  and  won  such  a  meas- 
ure of  success  as  seeu»s.  to  you  worth  accepting  ? " 

"  Yes,  John." 

"  You  are  a  shrewder  young  lady  than  I  gave  you 
credit  for  being,  my  dear.  But  you  are  right  enough, 
no  doubt.  You  hate  this  narrow  life  and  all  its  small 
economies.  Why.  indeed,  then,  should  you  bind  your- 
self to  live  in  it  ?  I  have  made  my  plans.  I  thought 


LOUISE  CHANDLER  MOUL  TON,  2 5  I 

once  of  studying  law,  but  that  is  slow  business.  I 
have  written  to-day  to  Uncle  Jared  Smith,  my  mother's 
brother.  He  is  one  of  the  great  merchants  of  New 
York,  and  he  has  always  promised  to  find  me  a  place 
with  him  if  I  would  come.  He  has  no  son  of  his  own, 
and  there  would  be  a  reasonable  chance,  if  I  pleased 
him,  of  my  being  taken  into  the  firm.  Would  that  suit 
you  ?  " 

Nan's  eyes  fairly  danced.  New  York!  Why,  that 
would  even  be  better  than  Boston. 

"Oh,  you  dear  John!"  she  cried  eagerly.  "And 
when  will  you  go  ?  " 

"  In  the  latter  part  of  November  if  Uncle  Jared  is 
ready  for  me  then.  Are  you  in  such  a  desperate  hurry 
for  me  to  leave  ?  " 

"  Oh,  John,  don't  look  at  me  like  that.  The  sooner 
you  go  the  sooner  it  will  come  to  pass,  won't  it  ?  " 

And  John  smiled  a  little  grimly,  and  made  up  his 
mind  that  it  was  really  just  as  well  they  were  not  to  be 
married  at  present.  Perhaps  his  thorny  little  sweet- 
heart would  care  more  for  him  after  she  had  tried  for 
a  year  or  two  what  life  would  be  without  him.  Even 
now  she  gave  him  all  she  had  to  give.  Was  it  well  to 
complain  of  a  rose-tree  because  it  could  not  be  an  oak, 
especially  if  one  loved  the  rose  ? 

For  the  next  month  all  went  well.  Uncle  Jared  re- 
joiced by  letter  over  the  prospect  of  having  his  nephew 
with  him.  All  John's  arrangements  were  made  for 
leaving  home,  and  Nan's  gay  smiles  brightened  the 
gloom  of  the  season  ;  for  Nan  was  in  love  with  the 
prospect  of  ultimate  New  York,  if  with  nothing  else. 
And  so  the  time  went  on  until  the  2ist  of  November. 

On  the  23d  John  Payne  was  to  leave  Ryefield.  He 
had  talked  over  his  plans  with  Nan,  the  night  of  the 
2ist,  for  the  hundredth  time.  She  found  them  a  very 
safe  subject ;  for,  long  as  she  Jjad  known  John,  she 
was  very  shy  of  him  as  a  lover'^nd  would  rather  hear 
him  talk  of  anything  else  thlff^luiat  love  of  his  that 
was  so  strong -and  so  genuine  that  it  came  into  her  life 
somewhat  like  a  persistent  north  wind  ruffling  a 
garden  of  roses.  When  John  went  away  he  held  her 
hand  for  a  long  time,  and  looked  deep  down  into  her 
eyes  till  she  grew  petulant,  and  asked  him  what  he 


2$2  "NAN." 

saw  and  what  was  wrong.  And  John  smiled  a  puzzling 
smile  as  he  answered  : 

"  Nothing  is  wrong,  I  think.  What  does  not  exist 
cannot  be  wrong.  I  have  got  to  wait  for  your  heart 
to  be  born.  I  shall  come  to-morrow  night  for  good- 
bye." 

But  long  before  the  next  night  news  had  gone 
abroad  in  Ryefield,  that  Ezra  Payne,  John's  father, 
had  been  seized  with  paralysis.  At  first  the  doctors 
had  thought  there  was  little  hope  for  his  life,  but  they 
began  to  be  more  cheerful  about  him  after  a  few 
hours. 

What  would  this  mean  to  John,  Nan  wondered. 
That  night  of  November  23,  Nan's  father,  always  a 
good  neighbor,  went  to  watch  beside  his  old  friend. 
The  doctor  was  there  also,  and  John  got  away  and 
came  to  Nan. 

"  This  is  not  good-bye  in  the  sense  I  expected,"  he 
said  ;  "  but  I  suppose  it  is  good-bye  in  another  way, 
and  a  long  good-bye,  too.  Nan,  have  you  realized  that 
I  must  now  stay  in  Ryefield  ?" 

"  Must,  John  ?  " 

"  Yes,  must,  even  though  it  should  cost  me  all  the 
joy  of  my  life.  I,  and  no  other,  must  care  for  my 
father  and  fill  his  place.  There  is  no  help.  I  have 
thought  and  thought,  and  there  is  no  other  way.  I  can- 
not leave  my  plain  duty  undone.  But  I  do  not  bind 
you,  Nan,  to  the  life  of  Ryefield.  You  shall  be 
free." 

"  And  you  won't  mind  ?  "  Nan  whispered,  timidly. 

"  Mind !  "  The  word  came  like  a  cry  from  John 
Payne's  lips.  Then  he  held  himself  in  with  a  strong 
hand  and  spoke  very  quietly.  "  No,  I  won't  mind.  If 
you  mean  by  that,  be  angry.  I  will  not  blame  you. 
You  were  honest  to  me  from  the  first,  and  we  do  not 
look  for  a  rose  to  bloom  in  the  storms  of  winter. 
Good-bye,  little  Nan,  whom  I  have  loved  all  my 
life." 

There  was  a  deep  note  in  his  voice  that  brought  the 
tears  to  Nan's  eyes.  She  sat  there  silently  after  he  was 
gone,  wondering  whether,  after  all,  love  might  not  be 
worth  more  than  some  other  things,  and  whether  any 
one  else  would  ever  love  her  as  John  did. 

That  very  week  an  unexpected  invitation  came  to 


BY  LO U1SE  CHA NDL EK  .MO UL 7 VN.  253 

her,  to  pass  two  or  three  months  uith  hc-r  summer- 
friend,  Miss  Amory.  Blanche  had  not  forgotten  her, 
then.  Proud  and  glad  as  she  was  of  this,  she  would 
have  been  no  less  so  had  she  known  how  urgently 
Quincy  Armory  had  jogged  his  sister's  memory. 

Nan  was  quite  used  to  her  own  way,  and  she  got  it 
in  this  instance.  A  week's  time  found  her  at  home  in 
the  Amory  mansion,  under  the  shadow  of  the  dome  of 
the  state-house.  Blanche's  two  sisters  had  gone  on  a 
visit  to  an  aunt  in  Baltimore,  and  Blanche  was  lonely 
enough  without  them  to  give  Nan  an  eager  welcome. 
And,  now,  indeed,  Nan  felt  that  she  had  just  begun  to 
live.  A  grub  might  feel  thus,  she  fancied,  when  he 
first  discovered  he  was  a  butterfly.  Here,  in  this 
ancestral  home,  where  British  officers  had  danced 
stately  minuets  when  Massachusetts  was  a  colony, 
were  all  the  delights  of  which  Nan  had  vainly 
dreamed.  Pictures,  china,  rugs,  carvings,  old  silver, 
curios  from  every  country  under  the  sun — the  glory  of 
all  the  kingdoms  of  the  world  !  Ah,  this  it  was  to  live  ! 

Papa  Allen  had  not  sent  his  only  child  away  with  an 
empty  purse,  and  Miss  Amory  helped  to  choose  the 
simple  yet  dainty  costumes  that  made  the  pretty  coun- 
try-girl ten  times  prettier.  And  if  Quincy  Amory  had 
been  touched  before  by  her  wild-rose  charms,  he  found 
them  in  this  new  setting  yet  more  beguiling.  And 
since  he,  the  only  son  of  his  father,  could  afford  to 
please  himself  in  marriage,  he  began  to  say  to  himself, 
"  Why  not  ?  "  Doubtless  Nan  might  have  said  "  Why 
not  (  '  too,  if  such  a  wild  thought  could  ever  have 
crossed  her  brain,  as  that  this  man.  to  whom  she 
looked  up  with  'such  unbounded  and  admiring  hom- 
age, could  care  for  her.  To  be  loved  by  the  most 
princely  man  she  had  ever  seen — to  live  always  in  this 
new  world  of  beauty — no,  Nan's  fancies  were  not 
strong-winged  enough  to  soar  so  high. 

But  as  the  weeks  went  on,  and  she  grew  used  to 
luxury,  it  began  to  fill  her  heart  not  quite  so  full  as  at 
first.  Sometimes,  in  the  midst  of  all  the  glories  that 
surrounded  her,  her  thoughts  went  back  to  Ryefield, 
and  she  heard  John's  voice  say  once  more  . 

"  Good-bye,  little  Nan,  whom  I  have  loved  all  my 
life." 

Quincy  Amory  did  not  ask  her  to  marry  him  until 


254  "NAN." 

she  had  been  his  sister's  guest  for  three  months.  It 
was  the  very  last  day  but  one  in  February  when,  one 
night,  he  found  that  she,  a  liitle  tired,  perhaps,  of 
pleasure,  had  staid  at  home  instead  of  going  with  his 
sister  to  a  party,  as  had  been  planned.  Here  was  his 
ready  made  opportunity,  of  which  he  availed  himself 
in  the  most  high-bred  and  polished  manner.  Perhaps 
there  was  an  indescribable  something  in  his  voice  and 
bearing  that  brought  it  home  to  Nan  that  he  was  con- 
ferring upon  her  an  extreme  distinction,  instead  of 
seeking  from  her,  as  John  Payne  had  done,  the  crown- 
ing grace  and  glory  of  his  own  life. 

If  he  had  made  his  offer  the  first  month  Nan  was 
there,  while  yet  she  was  dazzled  by  the  splendor  and 
nobility  of  everything,  I  have  little  doubt  but  that  she 
would  have  accepted  it.  Now  that  she  had  grown 
used  to  things,  they  had  less  power  over  her — and  she 
began,  instead  of  contemplating  the  glories  ot  Quincy 
Amory's  birth  and  state,  to  ask  herself  if  this  high- 
bred, listless  young  man  really  loved  her.  Suddenly 
she  asked  the  question  out  loud  : 

"  Are  you  quite  sure  you  love  me,  Mr.  Amory  ? " 

"  Quite  sure,  indeed.  Could  I  have  any  other 
motive  ?  " 

And  his  words  and  his  tone  lent  force  to  her  already 
keen  sense,  that  it  was  something  akin  to  the  red 
ribbon  of  the  Legion  of  Honor  which  this  Mayflower- 
descended  young  man  was  proposing  to  bestow  upon 
her.  What  imp  of  the  perverse  was  it  that  would  not 
let  her  say  yes  ? 

"Please,  I  must  think  a  little,"  she  answered 
quietly,  just  as  she  had  answered  John  Payne  before. 
"  \  will  tell  you  to-morrow  night." 

And  Mr.  Amory  seemed  quite  at  ease.  No  doubt 
he  approved  of  the  delicacy  that  would  not  be  too 
eager.  It  suited  his  taste,  and  even  enhanced  the 
girl's  value  in  his  eyes.  He  talked  then  about  indiffer- 
ent subjects — some  new  paintings  at  the  Art  Museum, 
the  photographs  at  Doll  &  Richards 'from  the  pictures 
of  "  The  Hermitage,"  a  coming  performance  of  the 
Passion  music. 

Nan  was  glad,  at  last,  when  she  could  civilly  get 
away  to  her  own  room  and  think  the  whole  thing  over. 
A  soft  coal  fire  was  burning  in  her  grate,  and  it  lighted. 


B  V  LOUISE  CHANDLER  MOUL  TON.  2  5  5 

the  luxurious  room  with  its  warm,  soft  hangings,  its 
sleepy-hollow  chairs  and  the  dainty  writing-table  with 
all  its  pretly  appointments.  This  was  just  what  Nan 
longed  for — what  she  had  craved  dumbly  ever  since 
she  could  remember.  She  had  only  to  say  "  Yes  "  to 
have  it  and  all  it  symbolized  her  own  for  always. 
What  was  the  drawback  ?  Why  did  she  hear  and  hear 
over  and  over  again,  that  last  good-bye  of  John's  ? 
Was  it  possible  that  she,  too,  had  loved  him  all  her 
life — all  her  life — and  had  never  known  it  until  now  ? 
Was  it  because  it  was  another,  and  not  John,  who 
offered  them  to  her,  that  all  the  external  things  she 
had  craved  so  long  seemed  to  her  in  this  hour  of  no 
account  ?  She  thought  late  into  the  night,  and  then  she 
slept  a  fitful  sleep,  in  which  she  dreamed  that  John 
Payne  and  Quincy  Amory  were  each  pulling  her,  one 
to  the  right,  the  other  to  the  left,  and  she  woke  with  a 
little  cry  on  her  lips  lest  she  should  be  torn  in  two. 

The  next  morning  she  said  to  Miss  Amory :  "  I 
must  go  home  to-morrow.  It  will  be  the  first  day  of 
spring. '' 

And,  despite  all  persuasion,  she  kept  to  this  resolu- 
tion. Quincy  Amory  heard  of  her  purpose  with  no 
misgivings.  It  seemed  natural  that,  after  having 
promised  to  marry  him,  she  should  think  it  well  to  go 
away.  Her  delicate  sense  of  propriety  was  one  of  her 
charms.  He  went,  without  a  misgiving,  to  find  her  in 
the  library,  whither  she  had  betaken  herself  after  din- 
ner. 

"  Well,  my  wilful  wild-rose,"  he  said  gayly,  as  he 
took  his  seat  beside  her,  "  are  you  ready  to  answer 
me  ? " 

"  Quite  ready,  Mr.  Amory." 

He  smiled. 

"  Don't  you  think  you  could  learn  to  say  Quincy, 
now  ? " 

"  No,  Mr.  Amory,  for  I  shall  have  no  right." 

The  careless  smile  died  on  his  lips,  and  his  eyes 
looked  into  hers  with  a  sudden,  grave  inquiry. 

•''  Do  you  mean,"  he  said,  "  that  you  do  not  like 
me  ? " 

'*  Oh,  no,  no ;  I  like  you  so  much.  I  mean  only  that 
that  is  all.  It  is  not  enough,  is  it?" 


256 

"  That  depends.  Do  yon  care  for  any  one  else  in 
that  way  ?  " 

Sudden  blushes  turned  Nan's  face  scarlet. 

"I'm  afraid  that  is  it,"  she  said.  "  I  did  not  know 
it  till  last  night.  It  was  only  when  I  came  to  think 
what  it  would  be  to  stay  away  always  from  Ryefield, 
that  I  began  to  understand  what  I  felt  for  some  one  I 
had  known  all  my  life." 

"  No  doubt  you  are  quite  right,"  he  said  a  little 
stiffly.  "  Of  course  you  are  right,  if  there  is  some  one 
else." 

The  tears  gathered  in  Nan's  dark  eyes. 

"Don't  be  vexed  at  me,"  she  said  humbly  and 
sweetly.  "  I  am  not  the  girl  you  ought  to  marry. 
You  should  have  some  one  who  is  used  to  your  world 
and  all  the  ways  of  it.  As  for  me — I  belong  to  Rye- 
field." 

The  best  and  noblest  side  of  Quincy  Amory  came 
out,  then  and  there.  He  took  Nan's  little  brown  hand 
and  raised  it  to  his  lips. 

"  You  are  a  good,  frank,  girl,"  he  said,  "  and  you 
would  have  been  the  one  for  me  had  you  loved  me. 
You  did  not,  and  it  is  my  loss." 

He  was  so  good  and  gentle  that  Nan  half  thought 
she  had  made  a  mistake,  even  then — but  deep  down 
in  her  heart  she  knew  better ;  and  she  went  on  her 
way  the  next  day  with  contentment. 

She  took  the  father  and  mother  at  home  by  surprise. 
They  had  looked  for  her  in  the  spring,  but  not  on  this 
first  day  of  it,  when  March  was  coming  in,  keen  still 
with  the  cold  of  winter,  and  wild  with  turbulent  gusts. 

"  Dear  me  !  "  her  mother  said,  using  the  New  Eng- 
land woman's  natural  form  of  invocation,  "dear  me,  I 
expect  it'll  seem  pretty  strange  to  you  here,  now  you've 
got  used  to  gas  and  furnaces  and  all  kinds  of  city-fix- 
ings." 

And  the  truth  was  it  did  seem  strange,  and  the  rigid, 
bare,  unbeautiful  usefulness  of  everything  was  not  one 
whit  more  attractive  to  beauty  loving  Nan  tharf'of  old. 

"  How's  John  ?  "  she  asked  hastily,  changing  the 
subject. 

"John  !  Oh,  I  guess  he's  pretty  well,  but  he's  got 
his  hands  full.  They  say  old  Mr.  Payne's  no  good  at 
all;  but  he  hasn't  any  notion  o'  dyin.'  And  John  tends 


BY  LO UISE  CHANDLER  MO UL TOM  257 

him,  and  sees  to  his  mother,  and  keeps  everything 
going  on  the  farm;  and  it's  no  wonder  if  he  has  grown 
thin  and  looks  k.nd  o'  worn  and  peaked  like.  He's 
had  a  hard  time  doin'  his  duty,  John  has." 

Nan  wondered  if  people  always  had  hard  times 
doing  their  duty,  and  secretly  concluded  that  this 
was  probably  the  case. 

How  did  John  Payne  know  that  she  had  got  home? 
But,  somehow,  people  always  did  know  things  in  Rye- 
field,  and  it  was  nothing  strange  that  John  should  come 
walking  in  after  supper  was  over.  Mrs.  Allen  was 
helping  her  "girl"  wash  up  the  dishes.  Mr.  Allen  was 
helping  his  "  man  "  do  the  chores.  And  Nan  sat  alone 
in  the  sitting-room,  where  the  kerosene  lamp  did  duty 
for  gas,  and  already  the  air-tight  stove  made  her  head 
ache.  Or,  after  all,  was  it  not  something  else  and  not 
the  stove  ?  Was  it  that  she  was  regretting  a  little  the 
lovely,  rose-hung,  wax-lighted  room  where  she  had 
been  wont  to  sit  at  this  hour  and  look  into  the  fire  ? 
Did  she  possibly  regret  that  with  her  own  hand  she 
had  shut  against  herself  the  gate  of  that  Beacon  Hill 
Eden  forever  ? 

John  came  in  quietly  and  saw  her  before  she  saw 
him — saw  her  with  eyes  into  which  grew  a  strange  ten- 
derness. Soon  she  felt  his  presence  and  looked 
around. 

"  Oh,  John ! "  she  cried,  and  there  was  unmistak- 
able gladness  in  her  tone. 

'•  You  are  glad  to  see  me  then,  even  after  Boston  ? " 

Nan  looked  up  into  his  face.  The  old,  loving  light 
was  in  his  eyes.  No,  he  had  not  changed. 

"  Come  and  sit  down,"  she  said,  "  and  I'll  tell  you 
how  I  feel  after  Boston." 

John  sat  down,  but  he  kept  his  hands  quietly  before 
him — those  hands  that  always  used  to  be  seeking  hers. 

" John  !  " 

It  was  a  low  tone,  with  a  little  quiver  of  pathos  in  it. 

"John!" 

"Yes,  Nan." 

«'  I  hate  rag-carpets." 

"Yes,  Nan." 

"  And  I  hate  braided  mats  and  kerosene-lamps  and 
air-tight  stoves,    and — life  as  it   is    in    Ryefield.     But 
there's  one  thing  I  hate  worse  yet,  John." 
17 


258  "NAN." 

"Yes,  Nan  ?"  this  time  with  a  note  of  interrogation. 

"  Yes,  I  hate  worse  any  life — any  life  at  all — where 
you  can't  come  in  at  twilight,  and  where  I'm  far,  far 
away  from  somebody  who  said  he  had  loved  me  all 
my  life." 

John  grew  pale  suddenly.  Watchful  Nan  saw  the 
color  leave  his  face,  and  the  hands  that  had  not  yet 
sought  hers  were  trembling. 

"Nan,"  he  said,  "do  you  quite  know  what  you  are 
saying  ? " 

"  Yes,  I  quite  know.  You  see,  I  didn't  know  last 
November — but  I  went  away  and  found  out." 

And  why  should  I  play  Paul  Pry  at  the  rest  of  the 
interview,  since  after  all,  the  story  ends  like  a  fairy- 
tale, with — "  And  so  they  were  married  ?  " 


A  MEMORABLE  MURDER, 


BY 


CELIA  THAXTER. 


CELIATHAXTER. 


CELIA  THAXTER  suddenly  broke  upon  the  literary 
horizon  some  twelve  or  fifteen  years  since,  with  an 
interesting  collection  of  poems  entitled  "  Drift-wood," 
and  considering  that  they  came  from  a  group  of 
islands,  away  from  the  mainland  far  enough  to  prevent 
frequent  communication,  the  poetical  debutant  was 
received  with  almost  as  much  surprise  as  pleasure. 
For  though  the  Isles  of  Shoals  were  well  known  as  a 
delightful  sea  resort,  they  had  certainly  never  been 
regarded  as  a  literary  centre,  or  as  a  place  likely  to 
develop  poetical  talent.  The  means  of  education  were 
comparatively  remote,  and  the  permanent  society  of 
the  islands  for  the  greater  part  of  the  year  offered 
very  limited  resources  for  a  budding  genius.  True, 
there  had  been  floating  through  the  current  literature 
for  some  time  stray  poems,  fragrant  with  the  ozone  of 
old  ocean,  signed  "  Celia  Thaxter  ;  "  still  it  was  difficult 
for  the  critical  reviewer  of  Boston  to  realize  that  the 
bearer  of  this  name  was  actually  a  long  time  resident, 
if  not  exactly  a  native  of  those  storm  beaten  isles  lying 
off  the  coast  of  New  Hampshire.  But  when  her  own 
autobiography,  of  her  earlier  years,  appeared  in  the 
pages  of  St.  Nicholas,  the  truth  was  realized  at  last, 
that  the  atmosphere  of  Cambridge  or  Beacon  Hill  was 
not  absolutely  necessary  to  the  growth  and  blooming 
of  the  flowers  of  poesy. 

Celia  Leighton  was  born  in  Portsmouth,  New 
Hampshire,  June  29,  1835,  but  the  family  removed 
soon  after  to  the  Isles  of  Shoals,  a  group  of  almost 
bare  rocks,  on  which  the  famous  lighthouse  was  for 
many  years  the  most  prominent  and  attractive  object. 
The  gradual  addition  of  summer  visitors  to  the  fishing 
population  came  slowly,  Celia's  father  being  the  first 
to  establish  anything  like  a  modern  hotel.  Those  who 
would  know  how  this  child  of  the  sea  grew  up  into  a 
263 


264  CELIA  THAXTER. 

refined  and  intelligent  woman,  should  read  not  only 
her  early  autobiography,  but  her  pleasant  little  book, 
entitled  "  Among  the  Isles  of  Shoals."  When  quite 
young,  in  1851,  Celia  Leighton  was  married  to  Mr. 
Thaxter,  and  has  continued  to  reside,  at  least  for  a 
portion  of  each  year  on  the  principal  island  of  the 
group,  which  has  been  made  known  through  her  pen 
to  a  far  wider  circle  than  would  ever  have  been  likely 
to  make  the  acquaintance  of  the  islands  on  their  own 
merits. 

Mrs.  Thaxter  has  done  for  the  sea-shore  and  the 
varied  aspects  of  ocean  views  and  the  rocky  isles  of  her 
home,  what  Whittier  has  done  for  the  milder  aspects  of 
the  river  on  whose  banks  he  dwelt.  As  he  may  be 
said  to  have  exhausted  the  descriptive  beauties  of  the 
Merrimac,  Mrs.  Thaxter  appears  to  have  left  nothing 
unsaid  of  the  varying  features  of  the  ocean,  whose 
waves  were  forever  beating  at  her  feet.  With  the 
minutest  attention  to  detail  ;  with  the  keenest  observa- 
tion for  shades  of  difference ;  with  an  almost  superfine 
susceptibility  to  climatic  and  meteorological  changes, 
so  that  she  might  be  termed  a  realist  in  word-painting, 
she  at  the  same  time  possessed  the  glow  and  the  imag- 
ination of  the  impressionist.  Thus  we  see  in  her  art 
the  happy  combination  of  the  two  schools.  Certainly 
no  one  can  read  her  poems  without  the  convic- 
tion of  certainty  that  she  has  seen  with  her  own  eyes 
what  she  describes.  There  is  something  beyond 
the  photographic  accuracy  of  experienced  obser- 
vation always  to  be  observed  even  in  her  simplest 
poems.  She  sees  something  more  than  the  mere  exter- 
nal forms  of  nature,  and  however  much  she  may 
delight  in  these,  it  is  not  her  sole  object  to  reproduce 
them  for  other  eyes.  Beyond  and  within  the  external, 
she  perceives  the  actuating  soul  :  and  it  is  this  quality 
which  gives  the  greatest  value  to  her  pictures  of  sea 
and  shore. 

In  her  prose  writing  the  picturesque  prevails,  though 
with  some  marked  exceptions  ;  in  all  is  a  moral  under- 
current which  crops  out  more  or  less  prominently  in  a'J 
of  her  productions — prose  or  poetry.  She  has  written 
some  charming  poems  for  children,  with  such  an  ex- 
quisite blending  of  the  didactic  with  the  scenic  and 


CELIA   THAXTER.  265 

emotional,  that  the  intended  lesson  is  conveyed  without 
exciting  the  natural  repulsion  of  children  to  "  morals," 
too  obviously  conveyed. 

Because  Mrs.  Thaxter  has  written  so  well  of  the  sea, 
her  graphic  imagery  has  impressed  some  critics  with 
the  idea  that  she  writes  of  nothing  else.  This  is  emi- 
nently unjust :  her  poems  are  not  confined  to  the  sea  ; 
as  all  will  remember  who  have  read  the  story  of  "  A 
Faded  Glove,"  "  Remonstrance,"  "  Piccola,"  and 
scores  of  other  verses  giving  land  pictures,  and  ex- 
hibiting some  of  the  finest  and  most  delicate  emotions 
of  the  human  heart ;  not  to  mention  her  musical 
sonnets  on  Beethoven  and  other  great  masters  of  com- 
position. Mrs.  Thaxter  was  happy  to  have  attracted, 
very  early  in  her  literary  career,  the  sympathy  and  ad- 
miration of  some  of  the  best  writers  and  critics  of  the 
day :  among  the  most  enthusiastic  of  her  admirers, 
was  Thomas  Wentworth  Higginson,  a  scholar  of  fine 
penetrating  sense,  who  is  also  a  lover  of  the  sea, 
and  one  of  the  most  competent  judges  of  ocean  nature 
painting  among  our  modern  literati.  He  failed  to  dis- 
cover any  lack  of  versatility  in  her  genius,  and  those  who 
study  her  works  as  a  whole,  will  find  that  there  is 
scarcely  a  moral  idea,  a  practical  point  in  ethics,  or 
an  emotion  of  the  human  heart,  which  has  not  been 
the  subject  of  her  pen,  touched  upon  at  least,  with 
more  or  less  freedom. 


A  MEMORABLE  MURDER. 


AT  the  Isles  of  Shoals,  on  the  5th  of  March  in  the 
year  1873,  occurred  one  of  the  most  monstrous  tragedies 
ever  enacted  on  this  planet.  The  sickening  details  of 
the  double  murder  are  well  known  ;  the  newspapers 
teemed  with  them  for  months  :  but  the  pathos  of  the 
story  is  not  realized  ;  the  world  does  not  know  how 
gentle  a  life  these  poor  people  led,  how  innocently 
happy  were  their  quiet  days.  They  were  all  Norwe- 
gians. The  more  1  see  of  the  natives  of  this  far-off 
land,  the  more  I  admire  the  fine  qualities  which  seem 
to  characterize  them  as  a  race.  Gentle,  faithful,  intel- 
ligent, God-fearing  human  beings,  they  daily  use  such 
courtesy  toward  each  other  and  all  who  come  in 
contact  with  them,  as  puts  our  ruder  Yankee  manners 
to  shame.  The  men  and  women  living  on  this  lonely 
island  were  like  the  sweet,  honest,  simple  folk  we 
read  of  in  Bjornson's  charming  Norwegian  stones,  full 
of  kindly  thoughts  and  ways.  The  murdered  Anethe 
might  have  been  the  Eli  of  Bjornson's  beautiful  Arne 
or  the  Ragnhild  of  Boyesen's  lovely  romance.  They 
rejoiced  to  find  a  home  just  such  as  they  desired  in 
this  peaceful  place  ;  the  women  took  such  pleasure  in 
the  little  house  which  they  kept  so  neat  and  bright,  in 
their  flock  of  hens,  their  little  dog  Ringe,  and  all  their 
humble  belongings  !  The  Norwegians  are  an  excep- 
tionally affectionate  people  ;  family  ties  are  very  strong 
and  precious  among  them.  Let  me  tell  the  story  of 
their  sorrow  as  simply  as  may  be. 

Louis  Wagner  murdered  Anethe  and  Karen  Chris- 
tensen  at  midnight  on  the  5th  of  March,  two  years  ago 
this  spring.  The  whole  affair  shows  the  calmness  of  a 
practised  hand  ;  there  was  no  malice  in  the  deed,  no 
heat ;  it  was  one  of  the  coolest  instances  of  delibera- 
tion ever  chronicled  in  the  annals  of  crime.  He 
admits  that  these  people  had  shown  him  nothing  but 
267 


268  A  MEMORABLE  MURDER. 

kindness.  He  says  in  so  many  words,  "  They  were  my 
best  friends."  They  looked  upon  him  as  a  brother. 
Yet  he  did  not  hesitate  to  murder  them.  The  island 
called  Smutty-Nose  by  human  perversity  (since  in  old 
times  it  bore  the  pleasanter  title  of  Haley's  Island)  was 
selected  to  be  the  scene  of  this  disaster.  Long  ago  I 
lived  two  years  upon  it,  and  know  well  its  whitened 
ledges  and  grassy  slopes,  its  low  thickets  of  wild-rose 
and  bayberry,  its  sea-wall  still  intact,  connecting  it 
with  the  small  island  Malaga,  opposite  Appledore,  and 
the  ruined  breakwater  which  links  it  with  Cedar  Island 
on  the  other  side.  A  lonely  cairn,  erected  by  some 
long  ago  forgotten  fishermen  or  sailors,  stands  upon 
the  highest  rock  at  the  southeastern  extremity  ;  at  its 
western  end  a  few  houses  are  scattered,  small,  rude 
dwellings,  with  the  square  old  Haley  house  near ;  two 
or  three  fish-houses  are  falling  into  decay  about  the 
water-side,  and  the  ancient  wharf  drops  stone  by  stone 
into  the  little  cove,  where  every  day  the  tide  ebbs  and 
flows  and  ebbs  again  with  pleasant  sound  and  fresh- 
ness. Near  the  houses  is  a  small  graveyard,  where  a 
few  of  the  natives  sleep,  and  not  far,  the  graves  of  the 
fourteen  Spaniards  lost  in  the  wreck  of  the  ship 
Sagunto  in  the  year  1813.  I  used  to  think  it  was  a 
pleasant  place,  that  low,  rocky  and  grassy  island, 
though  so  wild  and  lonely. 

From  the  little  town  of  Laurvig,  near  Christiania, 
in  Norway,  came  John  and  Maren  Hontvet  to  this 
country,  and  five  years  ago  took  up  their  abode  in 
this  desolate  spot,  in  one  of  the  cottages  facing  the 
cove  and  Appledore.  And  there  they  lived  through 
the  long  winters  and  the  lovely  summers,  John  making 
a  comfortable  living  by  fishing,  Maren,  his  wife,  keep- 
ing as  bright  and  tidy  and  sweet  a  little  home  for  him 
as  man  could  desire.  The  bit  of  garden  they  culti- 
vated in  the  summer  was  a  pleasure  to  them ;  they 
made  their  house  as  pretty  as  they  could  with  paint 
and  paper  and  gay  pictures,  and  Maren  had  a  shelf 
for  her  plants  at  the  window ;  and  John  was  always  so 
good  to  her,  so  kind  and  thoughtful  of  her  comfort  and 
of  what  would  please  her,  she  was  entirely  happy. 
Sometimes  she  was  a  little  lonely,  perhaps,  when  he 
was  tossing  afar  off  on  the  sea,  setting  or  hauling  his 
trawls,  or  had  sailed  to  Portsmouth  to  sell  his  fish. 


BY  CELT  A  TffAXTBR.  269 

So  that  she  was  doubly  glad  when  the  news  came 
that  some  of  her  people  were  coming  over  from  Nor- 
way to  live  with  her.  And  first,  in  the  month  of  May, 
1871,  came  her  sister  Karen,  who  stayed  only  a  short 
time  with  Maren,  and  then  came  to  Appledore,  where 
she  lived  at  service  two  years,  till  within  a  fortnight  of 
her  death.  The  first  time  I  saw  Maren  she  brought  her 
sister  to  us,  and  I  was  charmed  with  the  little  woman's 
beautiful  behavior ;  she  was  so  gentle,  courteous, 
decorous,  she  left  on  my  mind  a  most  delightful  impres- 
sion. Her  face  struck  me  as  remarkably  good  and 
intelligent,  and  her  gray  eyes  were  full  of  light. 

Karen  was  a  rather  sad-looking  woman,  about  twenty- 
nine  years  old ;  she  had  lost  a  lover  in  Norway  long 
since,  and  in  her  heart  she  fretted  and  mourned  for 
this  continually :  she  could  not  speak  a  word  of 
English  at  first,  but  went  patiently  about  her  work  and 
soon  learned  enough,  and  proved  herself  an  excellent 
servant,  doing  faithfully  and  thoroughly  everything 
she  undertook,  as  is  the  way  of  her  people  gener- 
ally. Her  personal  neatness  was  most  attractive. 
She  wore  gowns  made  of  cloth  woven  by  herself  in 
Norway,  a  coarse  blue  stuff,  always  neat  and  clean, 
and  often  I  used  to  watch  her  as  she  sat  by  the  fire 
spinning  at  a  spinning-wheel  brought  from  her  own 
country;  she  made  such  a  pretty  picture,  with  her  blue 
gown  and  fresh  white  apron,  and  the  nice,  clear  white 
muslin  bow  with  which  she  was  in  the  habit  of  fasten- 
ing her  linen  collar,  that  she  was  very  agreeable  to 
look  upon.  She  had  a  pensive  way  of  letting  her  head 
droop  a  little  sideways  as  she  spun,  and  while  the  low 
wheel  hummed  monotonously,  she  would  sit  crooning 
sweet,  sad  old  Norwegian  airs  by  the  hour  together, 
perfectly  unconscious  that  she  was  affording  such 
pleasure  to  a  pair  of  appreciative  eyes.  On  the  i2th 
of  October,  1872,  in  the  second  year  of  her  stay  with 
us,  her  brother,  Ivan  Christensen,  and  his  wife, 
Anethe  Mathea,  came  over  from  their  Norseland  in  an 
evil  day,  and  joined  Maren  and  John  at  their  island, 
living  in  the  same  house  with  them. 

Ivan  and  Anethe  had  been  married  only  since 
Christmas  of  the  preceding  year.  Ivan  was  tall,  light- 
haired,  rather  quiet  and  grave.  Anethe  was  young, 
fair,  and  merry,  with  thick,  bright  sunny  hair,  which 


2/O  A  MEMORABLE  MURDER. 

was  so  long  it  reached,  when  unbraided,  nearly  to  her 
knees  ;  blue-eyed,  with  brilliant  teeth  and  clear,  fresh 
complexion,  beautiful,  and  beloved  beyond  expression 
by  her  young  husband,  Ivan.  Mathew  tLontvet, 
John's  brother,  had  also  joined  the  little  circle  a  year 
before,  and  now  Maren's  happiness  was  complete. 
Delighted  to  welcome  them  all,  she  made  all  things 
pleasant  for  them,  and  she  told  me  only  a  few  days 
ago,  "  I  never  was  so  happy  in  my  life  as  when  we 
were  all  living  there  together."  So  they  abode  in 
peace  and  quiet,  with  not  an  evil  thought  in  their 
minds,  kind  and  considerate  to  each  other,  the 
men  devoted  to  their  women  and  the  women  repaying 
them  with  interest,  till  out  of  the  perfectly  cloudless 
sky  one  day  a  bolt  descended,  without  a  whisper  of 
warning,  and  brought  ruin  and  desolation  into  that 
peaceful  home. 

Louis  Wagner,  who  had  been  in  this  country  seven 
years,  appeared  at  the  Shoals  two  years  before  the 
date  of  the  murder.  He  lived  about  the  islands 
during  that  time.  He  was  born  in  Ueckermiinde,  a 
small  town  of  lower  Pomerania,  in  Northern  Prussia. 
Very  little  is  known  about  him,  though  there  were 
vague  rumors  that  his  past  life  had  not  been  without 
difficulties,  and  he  had  boasted  foolishly  among  his 
mates  that  "  not  many  had  done  what  he  had  done 
and  got  off  in  safety ; "  but  people  did  not 
trouble  themselves  about  him  or  his  past,  all  having 
enough  to  do  to  earn  their  bread  and  keep  the  wolf 
from  the  door.  Maren  describes  him  as  tall,  power- 
ful, dark,  with  a  peculiarly  quiet  manner.  She  says 
she  never  saw  him  drunk — he  seemed  always  anxious 
to  keep  his  wits  about  him :  he  would  linger  on  the 
outskirts  of  a  drunken  brawl,  listening  to  and  absorb- 
ing everything,  but  never  mixing  himself  up  in  any 
disturbance.  He  was  always  lurking  in  corners, 
lingering,  looking,  listening,  and  he  would  look  no 
man  straight  in  the  eyes.  She  spoke,  however,  of 
having  once  heard  him  disputing  with  some  sailors,  at 
table,  about  some  point  of  navigation  ;  she  did  not 
understand  it,  but  all  were  against  Louis,  and,  waxing 
warm,  all  strove  to  show  him  he  was  in  the  wrong. 
As  he  rose  and  left  the  table  she  heard  him  mutter  to 
himself  with  an  oath,  "  I  know  I'm  wrong,  but  I'll 


BY  CELIA  THAXTER,  27 1 

never  give  in ! "  During  the  winter  preceding  the 
one  in  which  his  hideous  deed  was  committed  he 
lived  at  Star  Island  and  fished  alone,  in  a  wherry; 
but  he  made  very  little  money,  and  came  often  over 
to  the  Hontvets,  where  Maren  gave  him  food  when 
he  was  suffering  from  want,  and  where  he  received 
always  a  welcome  and  the  utmost  kindness.  In  the 
following  June  he  joined  Hontvet  in  his  business  of 
fishing,  and  took  up  his  abode  as  one  of  the  family  at 
Smutty-Nose.  During  the  summer  he  was  "crippled," 
as  he  said,  by  the  rheumatism,  and  they  were  all  very 
good  to  him.  and  sheltered,  fed,  nursed  and  waited 
upon  him  the  greater  part  of  the  season,  He  remained 
with  them  five  weeks  after  Ivan  and  Anethe  arrived, 
so  that  he  grew  to  know  Anethe  as  well  as  Maren,  and 
was  looked  upon  as  a  brother  by  all  of  them,  as  I 
have  said  before.  Nothing  occurred  to  show  his  true 
character,  and  in  November  he  left  the  island  and  the 
kind  people  whose  hospitality  he  was  to  repay  so  fear- 
fully, and  going  to  Portsmouth  he  took  passage  in 
another  fishing  schooner,  the  Addison  Gilbert,  which 
was  presently  wrecked  off  the  coast,  and  he  was 
again  thrown  out  of  employment.  Very  recklessly  he 
said  to  Waldemar  Ingebertsen.  to  Charles  Jonsen, 
and  even  to  John  Hontvet  himself,  at  different  times, 
that  "he  must  have  money  if  he  murdered  for  it." 
He  loafed  about  Portsmouth  eight  weeks,  doing  noth- 
ing. Meanwhile  Karen  left  our  service  in  February, 
intending  to  go  to  Boston  and  work  at  a  sewing- 
machine,  for  she  was  not  strong  and  thought  she 
should  like  it  better  than  housework,  but  before  going 
she  lingered  awhile  with  her  sister  Maren — fatal  delay 
for  her !  Maren  told  me  that  during  this  time  Karen 
went  to  Portsmouth  and  had  her  teeth  removed,  mean- 
ing to  provide  herself  with  a  new  set.  At  the  Jensens', 
where  Louis  was  staying,  one  day  she  spoke  to  Mrs. 
Jonsen  of  her  mouth,  that  it  was  so  sensitive  since  the 
teeth  had  been  taken  out :  and  Mrs.  Jonsen  asked  her 
how  long  she  must  wait  before  the  new  set  could  be 
put  in.  Karen  replied  that  it  would  be  three  months. 
Louis  Wagner  was  walking  up  and  down  at  the  other 
end  of  the  room  with  his  arms  folded,  his  favorite 
attitude.  Mrs.  Jensen's  daughter  passed  near  him 
and  heard  him  mutter,  "  Three  months  !  What  is  the 


2/2  A  MEMORABLE  MURDER. 

use  !  In  three  months  you  will  be  dead  !  "  He  did 
not  know  the  girl  was  so  near,  and  turning,  he  con- 
fronted her.  He  knew  she  must  have  heard  what  he 
said,  and  he  glared  at  her  like  a  wild  man. 

On  the  fifth  day  of  March,  1873,  John  Hontvet,  his 
brother  Mathew,  and  Ivan  Christensen  set  sail  in 
John's  little  schooner,  the  Clara  Bella,  to  draw  their 
trawls.  At  that  time  four  of  the  islands  were  in- 
habited ;  one  family  on  White  Island,  at  the  light- 
house ;  the  workmen  who  were  building  the  new 
hotel  on  Star  Island,  and  one  or  two  households  be- 
side ;  the  Hontvet  family  at  Smutty-Nose  ;  and  on 
Appledore,  the  household  at  the  large  house,  and  on 
the  southern  side,  opposite  Smutty-Nose,  a  little 
cottage,  where  lived  Jorge  Edbardt  Ingebertsen,  his 
wife  and  children,  and  several  men  who  fished  with 
him.  Smutty-Nose  is  not  in  sight  of  the  large  house  at 
Appledore,  so  we  were  in  ignorance  of  all  that  hap- 
pened on  that  dreadful  night,  longer  than  the  other  in- 
habitants of  the  Shoals. 

John,  Ivan  and  Mathew  went  to  draw  their  trawls, 
which  had  been  set  some  miles  to  the  eastward  of  the 
islands.  They  intended  to  be  back  to  dinner,  and  then 
to  go  on  to  Portsmouth  with  their  fish,  and  bait  the 
trawls  afresh,  ready  to  bring  back  to  set  again  next  day. 
But  the  wind  was  strong  an 4  fair  for  Portsmouth  and 
ahead  for  the  islands ;  it  would  have  been  a  long  beat 
home  against  it ;  so  they  went  on  to  Portsmouth,  with- 
out touching  at  the  island  to  leave  one  man  to  guard 
the  women,  as  had  been  their  custom.  This  was  the 
first  night  in  all  the  years  Maren  had  lived  there  that 
the  house  was  without  a  man  to  protect  it.  But  John, 
always  thoughtful  for  her,  asked  Emil  Ingebertsen, 
whom  he  met  on  the  fishing-grounds,  to  go  over  from 
Appledore  and  tell  her  that  they  had  gone  on  to  Ports- 
mouth with  the  favoring  wind,  but  that  they  hoped  to 
be  back  that  night.  And  he  would  have  been  back 
had  the  bait  he  expected  from  Boston  arrived  on  the 
train  in  which  it  was  due.  How  curiously  everything 
adjusted  itself  to  favor  the  bringing  about  of  this  hor- 
rible catastrophe  !  The  bait  did  not  arrive  till  the  half- 
past  twelve  train,  and  they  were  obliged  to  work  the 
whole  night  getting  their  trawls  ready,  thus  leaving  the 
way  perfectly  clear  for  Louis  Wagner's  awful  work, 


BY  CELIA   THAXTER.  2?$ 

The  three  women  left  alone  watched  and  waited  in 
vain  for  the  schooner  to  return,  and  kept  the  dinner 
hot  for  the  men,  and  patiently  wondered  why  they  did 
not  come.  In  vain  they  searched  the  wide  horizon  for 
that  returning  sail.  Ah  me,  what  pathos  is  in  that 
longing  look  of  women's  eyes  for  far-off  sails  ?  That 
gaze,  so  eager,  so  steadfast,  that  it  would  almost  seem 
as  if  it  must  conjure  up  the  ghostly  shape  of  glimmer- 
ing canvas  from  the  mysterious  distances  of  se'a  and 
sky,  and  draw  it  unerringly  home  by  the  mere  force  of 
intense  wistfulness  !  And  those  gentle  eyes,  that  were 
never  to  see  the  light  of  another  sun,  looked  anxiously 
across  the  heaving  sea  till  twilight  fell,  and  then  John's 
messenger,  Emil,  arrived — Emil  Ingebertsen,  courteous 
and  gentle  as  a  youthful  knight — and  reassured  them 
with  his  explanation,  which  having  given,  he  departed, 
leaving  them  in  a  much  more  cheerful  state  of  mind. 
So  the  three  sisters,  with  only  the  little  dog  Ringe  for  a 
protector,  sat  by  the  fire  chatting  together  cheerfully. 
They  fully  expected  the  schooner  back  again  that 
night  from  Portsmouth,  but  they  were  not  ill  at  ease 
while  they  waited  Of  what  should  they  be  afraid  ? 
They  had  not  an  enemy  in  the  world  !  No  shadow 
crept  to  the  fireside  to  warn  them  what  was  at  hand,  no 
portent  of  death  chilled  the  air  as  they  talked  their 
pleasant  talk  and  made  their  little  plans  in  utter 
unconsciousness.  Karen  was  to  have  gone  to  Ports- 
mouth with  the  fishermen  that  day,  she  was  already 
dressed  to  go.  Various  little  commissions  were  given 
her,  errands  to  do  for  the  two  sisters  she  was  to  leave 
behind.  Maren  wanted  some  buttons,  and  "  I'll  give 
you  one  for  a  pattern  ;  I'll  put  it  in  your  purse,"  she 
said  to  Karen,  "and  then  when  you  open  your  purse 
you'll  be  sure  to  remember  it."  (That  little  button,  of 
a  peculiar  pattern,  was  found  in  Wagner's  possession 
afterward.)  They  sat  up  till  ten  o'clock,  talking  to- 
gether. The  night  was  bright  and  calm ;  it  was  a 
comfort  to  miss  the  bitter  winds  that  had  raved  about 
the  little  dwelling  all  the  long,  rough  winter.  Already 
it  was  spring  ;  this  calm  was  the  first  token  of  its  com- 
ing. It  was  the  5th  of  March  ;  in  a  few  weeks  the 
weather  would  soften,  the  grass  grow  green,  and 
Anethe  would  see  the  first  flowers  in  this  strange 
country,  so  far  from  her  home  where  she  had  left 
18 


274  A  MEMORABLE  MURDER. 

father  and  mother,  kith  and  kin,  for  love  of  Ivan.  The 
delicious  days  of  summer  at  hand  would  transform  the 
work  of  the  toiling  fishermen  to  pleasure,  and  all  things 
would  bloom  and  smile  about  the  poor  people  on  the 
lonely  rock  !  Alas,  it  was  not  to  be. 

At  ten  o  clock  they  went  to  bed.  It  was  cold  and 
"lonesome"  upstairs,  so  Maren  put  some  chairs  by 
the  side  of  the  lounge,  laid  a  mattress  upon  it,  and 
made  up  a  bed  for  Karen  in  the  kitchen,  where  she 
presently  fell  asleep.  Maren  and  Anethe  slept  in  the 
next  room.  So  safe  they  felt  themselves,  they  did  not 
pull  down  a  curtain,  nor  even  try  to  fasten  the  house- 
door.  They  went  to  their  rest  in  absolute  security  and 
perfect  trust.  It  was  the  first  still  night  of  the  new 
year ;  a  young  moon  stole  softly  down  toward  the  west, 
a  gentle  wind  breathed  through  the  quiet  dark,  and  the 
waves  whispered  gently  about  the  island,  helping  to  lull 
those  innocent  souls  to  yet  more  peaceful  slumber. 
Ah,  where  were  the  gales  of  March  that  might  have 
plowed  that  tranquil  sea  to  foam,  and  cut  off  the  fatal 
path  of  Louis  Wagner  to  that  happy  home  !  But  nature 
seemed  to  pause  and  wait  for  him.  I  remember  look- 
ing abroad  over  the  waves  that  night  and  rejoicing  over 
"  the  first  calm  night  of  the  year !  "  It  was  so  still,  so 
bright  !  The  hope  of  all  the  light  and  beauty  a  few 
weeks  would  bring  forth  stirred  me  to  sudden  joy. 
There  should  be  spring  again  after  the  long  winter- 
weariness. 

"  Can  trouble  live  in  April  days, 
Or  sadness  in  the  summer  moons  ?" 

I  thought,  as  I  watched  the  clear  sky,  grown  less 
hard  than  it  had  been  for  weeks,  and  sparkling  with 
stars.  But  before  another  sunset  it  seemed  to  me  that 
beauty  had  fled  out  of  the  world,  and  that  goodness, 
innocence,  mere}-,  gentleness,  were  a  mere  mockery  of 
empty  words. 

Here  let  us  leave  the  poor  women,  asleep  on  the 
lonely  rock,  with  no  help  near  them  in  heaven  or  upon 
earth,  and  follow  the  fishermen  to  Portsmouth,  where 
they  arrived  about  four  o'clock  that  afternoon.  One 
of  the  first  men  whom  they  saw  as  they  neared  the 
town  was  Louis  Wagner ;  to  him  they  threw  the  rope 
from  the  schooner^  a,nd  he  helped  draw  her  in  to  the 


BY  CELIA  THAXTER.  2?$ 

wharf.  Greetings  passed  between  them  ;  he  spoke  to 
Mathew  Hontvet,  and  as  he  looked  at  Ivan  Christ- 
ensen,  the  man  noticed  a  flush  pass  over  Louis's  face. 
He  asked  were  they  going  out  again  that  night  ? 
Three  times  before  they  parted  he  asked  that  question  ; 
he  saw  that  all  the  three  men  belonging  to  the  island 
had  come  away  together  ;  he  began  to  realize  his  oppor 
tunity.  They  answered  him  that  if  their  bait  came  by 
the  train  in  which  they  expected  it,  they  hoped  to  get 
back  that  night,  but  if  it  was  late  they  should  be 
obliged  to  stay  till  morning,  baiting  their  trawls;  and 
they  asked  him  to  come  and  help  them.  It  is  a  long 
and  tedious  business,  the  baiting  of  trawls  ;  often  more 
than  a  thousand  hooks  are  to  be  manipulated,  and 
lines  and  hooks  coiled,  clear  of  tangles,  into  tubs,  all 
ready  for  throwing  overboard,  when  the  fishing-grounds 
are  reached.  Louis  gave  them  a  half  promise  that  he 
would  help  them,  but  they  did  not  see  him  again  after 
leaving  the  wharf.  The  three  fishermen  were  hungry, 
not  having  touched  at  their  island,  where  Maren  always 
provided  them  with  a  supply  of  food  to  take  with  them  ; 
they  asked  each  other  if  either  had  brought  any  money 
with  which  to  buy  bread,  and  it  came  out  that  every 
one  had  left  his  pocket-book  at  home.  Louis,  stand- 
ing by,  heard  all  this.  He  asked  John,  then,  if  he  had 
made  fishing  pay.  John  answered  that  he  had  cleared 
about  six  hundred  dollars. 

The  men  parted,  the  honest  three  about  their  busi- 
ness ;  but  Louis,  what  became  of  him  with  his  evil 
thoughts  ?  At  about  half-past  seven  he  went  into  a 
liquor  shop  and  had  a  glass  of  something;  not  enough 
to  make  him  unsteady, — he  was  too  wise  for  that.  He 
was  not  seen  again  in  Portsmouth  by  any  human 
creature  that  night.  He  must  have  gone,  after  that, 
directly  down  to  the  river,  that  beautiful,  broad  river, 
the  Piscataqua,  upon  whose  southern  bank  the  quaint 
old  city  of  Portsmouth  dreams  its  quiet  days  away;  and 
there  he  found  a  boat  ready  to  his  hand,  a  dory  belong- 
ing to  a  man  by  the  name  of  David  Burke,  who  had 
that  day  furnished  it  with  new  thole-pins.  Then  it 
was  picked  up  afterward  off  the  mouth  of  the  river, 
Louis's  anxious  oars  had  eaten  half-way  through  the 
substance  of  these  pins,  which  are  always  made  of  the 
Hardest,  toughest  wood  that  can  be  found.  A  terrible. 


2?6  A  MEMORABLE  MURDER. 

piece  of  rowing  must  that  have  been,  in  one  night ! 
Twelve  miles  from  the  city  to  the  Shoals, — three  to  the 
light-houses,  where  the  river  meets  the  open  sea,  nine 
more  to  the  islands ;  nine  back  again  to  Newcastle 
next  morning !  He  took  that  boat,  and  with  the 
favoring  tide  dropped  down  the  rapid  river  where  the 
swift  current  is  so  strong  that  oars  are  scarcely  needed, 
except  to  keep  the  boat  steady.  Truly  all  nature 
seemed  to  play  into  his  hands ;  this  first  relenting 
night  of  earliest  spring  favored  him  with  its  stillness, 
the  tide  was  fair,  the  wind  was  fair,  the  little  moon 
gave  him  just  enough  light,  without  betraying  him  to 
any  curious  eyes,  as  he  glided  down  the  three  miles 
between  the  river  banks,  in  haste  to  reach  the  sea. 
Doubtless  the  light  west  wind  played  about  him  as 
delicately  as  if  he  had  been  the  most  human  of  God's 
creatures  ;  nothing  breathed  remonstrance  in  his  ear, 
nothing  whispered  in  the  whispering  water  that  rippled 
about  his  inexorable  keel,  steering  straight  for  the 
Shoals  through  the  quiet  darkness.  The  snow  lay 
thick  and  white  upon  the  land  in  the  moonlight ;  lamps 
.twinkled  here  and  there  from  dwellings  on  either  side  ; 
in  Eliot  and  Newcastle,  in  Portsmouth  and  Kittery, 
roofs,  chimneys,  and  gables  showed  faintly  in  the 
vague  light ;  the  leafless  trees  clustered  dark  in  hollows 
or  lifted  their  tracery  of  bare  boughs  in  higher  spaces 
against  the  wintry  sky.  His  eyes  must  have  looked  on 
it  all,  whether  he  saw  the  peaceful  picture  or  not. 
Beneath  many  a  humble  roof  honest  folk  were  settling 
into  their  untroubled  rest,  as  "  this  planned  piece  of 
deliberate  wickedness  "  was  stealing  silently  by  with 
his  heart  full  of  darkness,  blacker  than  the  black  tide 
that  swirled  beneath  his  boat  and  bore  him  fiercely  on. 
At  the  river's  mouth  stood  the  sentinel  light-houses, 
sending  their  great  spokes  of  light  afar  into  the  night, 
like  the  arms  of  a  wide  humanity  stretching  into  the 
darkness  helping  hands  to  bring  all  who  needed  succor 
safely  home.  He  passed  them,  first  the  tower  at  Fort 
Point,  then  the  taller  one  at  Whale's  Back,  steadfastly 
holding  aloft  their  warning  fires.  There  was  no  signal 
from  the  warning  bell  as  he  rowed  by,  though  a  danger 
more  subtle,  more  deadly,  than  fog,  or  hurricane,  or 
pelting  storm  was  passing  swift  beneath  it.  Unchal* 
lenged  by  anything  in  earth  or  heaven,  h§  kept  on  his 


BY  CELIA  THAXTER.  2/7 

way  and  gained  the  great  outer  ocean,  doubtless  pull- 
ing strong  and  steady,  for  he  had  no  time  to  lose,  and 
the  longest  night  was  all  too  short  for  an  undertaking 
such  as  this.  Nine  miles  from  the  light-houses  to  the 
islands!  Slowly  he  makes  his  way  ;  it  seems  to  take 
an  eternity  of  time.  And  now  he  is  midway  between 
the  islands  and  the  coast.  That  little  toy  of  a  boat 
with  its  one  occupant  in  the  midst  of  the  awful,  black 
heaving  sea !  The  vast  dim  ocean  whispers  with  a 
thousand  waves  ;  against  the  boat's  side  the  ripples 
lightly  tap,  and  pass  and  are  lost ;  the  air  is  full  of  fine, 
mysterious  voices  of  winds  and  waters.  Has  he  no  fear, 
alone  there  on  the  midnight  sea  with  such  a  purpose  in 
his  heart  ?  The  moonlight  sends  a  long,  golden  track 
across  the  waves  ;  it  touches  his  dark  face  and  figure, 
it  glitters  on  his  dripping  oars.  On  his  right  hand 
Boone  Island  light  shows  like  a  setting  star  on  the 
horizon,  low  on  his  left  the  two  beacons  twinkle  off 
Newburyport,  at  the  mouth  of  the  Merrimack  river ; 
all  the  light-houses  stand  watching  along  the  coast, 
wheeling  their  long,  slender  shafts  of  radiance  as  if 
pointing  at  this  black  atom  creeping  over  the  face  of 
the  planet  with  such  colossal  evil  in  his  heart.  Before 
him  glitters  the  Shoals'  light  at  White  Island,  and  helps 
to  guide  him  to  his  prey.  Alas,  my  friendly  light-house, 
that  you  should  serve  so  terrible  a  purpose  !  Steadily 
the  oars  click  in  the  rowlocks  stroke  after  stroke  of 
the  broad  blades  draws  him  away  from  the  lessening 
line  of  land,  over  the  wavering  floor  of  the  ocean, 
nearer  the  lonely  rocks.  Slowly  the  coast-lights  fade, 
and  now  the  roar  of  the  sea  among  the  lonely  ledges  of 
the  Shoals  salutes  his  attentive  ear.  A  little  longer 
and  he  nears  Appledore,  the  first  island,  and  now  he 
passes  by  the  snow-covered,  ice-bound  rock,  with  the 
long  buildings  showing  clear  in  the  moonlight.  He 
must  have  looked  at  them  as  he  went  past.  I  wonder 
we  who  slept  beneath  the  roofs  thai  glimmered  to  his 
eyes  in  the  uncertain  light  did  not  feel,  through  the 
thick  veil  of  sleep,  what  fearful  thing  passed  by  !  But 
we  slumbered  peacefully  as  the  unhappy  woman  whose 
doom  every  click  of  those  oars  in  the  rowlocks,  like  the 
ticking  of  some  dreadful  clock,  was  bringing  nearer 
and  nearer.  Between  the  islands  he  passes  ;  they  are 
full  of  chilly  gleams  and  glooms.  There  is  no  scene 


2/8  A  MEMORABLE  MURDER. 

more  weird  than  these  snow-covered  rocks  in  winter, 
more  shudderful  and  strange :  the  moonlight  touching 
them  with  mystic  glimmer,  the  black  water  breaking 
about  them,  and  the  vast  shadowy  spaces  of  the  sea 
stretching  to  the  horizon  on  every  side,  full  of  vague 
sounds,  of  half  lights  and  shadows,  of  fear,  and  of 
mystery.  The  island  he  seeks  lies  before  him,  lone 
and  still  ;  there  is  no  gleam  in  any  window,  there  is  no 
help  near,  nothing  upon  which  the  women  can  call  for 
succor.  He  does  not  land  in  the  cove  where  all  boats 
put  in  ;  he  rows  round  to  the  south  side  and  draws  his 
boat  up  on  the  rocks.  His  red  returning  footsteps  are 
found  here  next  day,  staining  the  snow.  He  makes 
his  way  to  the  house  he  knows  so  well. 

All  is  silent  :  nothing  moves,  nothing  sounds  but  the 
hushed  voices  of  the  sea.  His  hand  is  on  the  latch,  he 
enters  stealthily,  there  is  nothing  to  resist  him.  The 
little  dog,  Ringe,  begins  to  bark  sharp  and  loud,  and 
Karen  rouses,  crying,  "John,  is  that  you?"  thinking 
the  experted  fishermen  had  returned.  '  Louis  seizes  a 
chair  and  strikes  at  her  in  the  dark  ;  the  clock  on  a 
shelf  above  her  head  falls  down  with  the  jarring  of  the 
blow,  and  stops  at  exactly  seven  minutes  to  one. 
Maren,  in  the  next  room,  waked  suddenly  from  her 
sound  sleep,  trying  in  vain  to  make  out  the  meaning  of 
it  all,  cries,  "What's  the  matter?"  Karen  answers, 
"John  scared  me  ! "  Maren  springs  from  her  bed  and 
tries  to  open  her  chamber  door  ;  Louis  has  fastened  it 
on  the  other  side  by  pushing  a  stick  through  over  the 
latch.  With  her  heart  leaping  with  terror  the  poor  child 
shakes  the  door  with  all  her  might,  in  vain.  Utterly 
confounded  and  bewildered,  she  hears  Karen  scream- 
ing, "John  kills  me!  John  kills  me!"  She  hears 
the  sound  of  repeated  blows  and  shrieks,  till  at  last  her 
sister  falls  heavily  against  the  door,  which  gives  way, 
and  Maren  rushes  out.  She  catches  dimly  a  glimpse 
of  a  tall  figure  outlined  against  the  southern  window; 
she  seizes  poor  Karen  and  drags  her  with  the  strength 
of  frenzy  within  the  bedroom.  This  unknown  terror, 
this  fierce,  dumb  monster  who  never  utters  a  sound  to 
betray  himself  through  the  whole,  pursues  her  with 
blows,  strikes  her  three  times  with  a  chair,  either  blow 
with  fury  sufficient  to  kill  her,  had  it  been  light  enough 
for  him  to  see  how  to  direct  it ;  but  she  gets  her  sister 


BY  CELIA  THAXTER.  279 

inside  and  the  door  shut,  and  holds  it  against  him  with 
all  her  might  and  Karen's  failing  strength.  What  a 
little  heroine  uas  this  poor  child,  struggling  with  the 
force  of  desperation  to  save  herself  and  her  sisters  ! 

All  this  lime  Anethe  lay  dumb,  not  daring  to  move 
or  breathe,  roused  from  the  deep  sleep  of  youth  and 
health  by  this  nameless,  formless  terror.  Maren,  while 
she  strives  to  hold  the  door  at  which  Louis  rattles 
again  and  again,  calls  to  her  in  anguish,  "  Anethe, 
Anethe!  Get  out  of  the  window !  run!  hide!"  The 
poor  girl,  almost  paralyzed  with  fear,  tries  to  obey, 
puts  her  bare  feet  out  of  the  low  window,  and  stands 
outside  in  the  freezing  snow,  with  one  light  garment 
over  her  cowering  figure  shrinking  in  the  cold  winter 
wind,  the  clear  moonlight  touching  her  white  face 
and  bright  hair  and  fair  young  shoulders.  "  Scream! 
scream  !  "  shouts  frantic  Maren.  "  Somebody  at  Star 
Island  may  hear  ! "  but  Anethe  answers  with  the  calm- 
ness of  despair,  "  I  cannot  make  a  sound."  Maren 
screams  herself,  but  the  feeble  sound  avails  nothing. 
"  Run  !  run  !  "  she  cries  to  Anethe  ;  but  again  Anethe 
answers,  "  I  cannot  move." 

Louis  has  left  off  trying  to  force  the  door  ;  he  listens. 
Are  the  women  trying  to  escape  ?  He  goes  out-of-doors. 
Maren  flies  to  the  w  indow ;  he  comes  round  the  corner 
of  the  house  and  confronts  Anethe  where  she  stands 
in  the  snow.  The  moonlight  shines  full  in  his  face  ; 
she  shrieks  loudly  and  distinctly,  "  Louis,  Louis  !  " 

Ah,  he  is  discovered,  he  is  recognized  !  Quick  as 
thought  he  goes  back  to  the  front  door,  at  the  side  of 
which  stands  an  ax  left  there  by  Maren,  who  had  used 
it  the  clay  before  to  cut  the  ice  from  the  well.  He 
returns  to  Anethe  standing  shuddering  there.  It  is  no 
matter  that  she  is  beautiful,  young,  and  helpless  to 
resist,  that  she  has  been  kind  to  him,  that  she  never 
did  a  human  creature  harm,  that  she  stretches  her 
gentle  hands  out  to  him  in  agonized  entreaty,  crying 
piteously,  "Oh,  Louis,  Louis,  Louis  !"  He  raises  the 
ax  and  brings  it  down  on  her  bright  head  in  one  tremen- 
dous blow,  and  she  sinks  without  a  sound  and  lies  in  a 
heap,  with  her  warm  blood  reddening  the  snow.  Then 
he  deals  her  blow  after  blow,  almost  within  reach  of 
Maren's  hands,  as  she  stands  at  the  window.  Dis- 
tracted, Maren  strives  to  rouse  poor  Karen,  who  kneels 


280  A  MEMORABLE  MURDER. 

with  her  head  on  the  side  of  the  bed  ;  with  desperate 
entreaty  she  tries  to  get  her  up  and  away,  but  Karen 
moans,  "  I  cannot,  I  cannot."  She  is  too  far  gone  ;  and 
then  Maren  knows  she  cannot  save  her,  and  that  she 
must  flee  herself  or  die.  So,  while  Louis  again  enters 
the  house,  she  seizes  a  skirt  and  wraps  round  her  shoul- 
ders, and  makes  her  way  out  of  the  open  window,  over 
Anethe's  murdered  body,  barefooted,  flying  away,  any- 
where, breathless,  shaking  with  terror. 

Where  can  she  go  ?  Her  little  dog,  frightened  into 
silence,  follows  her, — pressing  so  close  to  her  feet  that 
she  falls  over  him  more  than  once.  Looking  back  she 
sees  Louis  has  lit  a  lamp  and  is  seeking  for  her. 
She  flies  to  the  cove ;  if  she  can  but  find  his  boat  and 
row  away  in  it  and  get  help  !  It  is  not  there  ;  there  is 
no  boat  in  which  she  can  get  away.  She  hears  Karen's 
wild  screams, — he  is  killing  her !  Oh,  where  can  she 
go  ?  Is  there  any  place  on  that  little  island  where  he 
will  not  find  her  ?  She  thinks  she  will  creep  into  one 
of  the  empty  old  houses  by  the  water ;  but,  no,  she 
reflects,  if  I  hide  there,  Ringe  will  bark  and  betray  me 
the  moment  Louis  comes  to  look  for  me.  And  Ringe 
saved  her  life,  for  next  day  Louis's  bloody  tracks  were 
found  all  about  those  old  buildings  where  he  had 
sought  her.  She  flies,  with  Karen's  awful  cries  in  her 
ears  away  over  the  rocks  and  snow  to  the  farthest 
limit  she  can  gain.  The  moon  has  set ;  it  is  about  two 
o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  oh,  so  cold  !  She  shivers 
and  shudders  from  head  to  feet,  but  her  agony  of 
terror  is  so  great  she  is  hardly  conscious  of  bodily  sen- 
sation. And  welcome  is  the  freezing  snow,  the  jagged 
ice  and  iron  rocks  that  tear  her  unprotected  feet,  the 
bitter  brine  that  beats  against  the  shore,  the  winter 
winds  that  make  her  shrink  and  tremble  ;  "  they  are  not 
so  unkind  as  man's  ingratitude  ! "  Falling  often, 
rising,  struggling  on  with  feverish  haste,  she  makes 
her  way  to  the  very  edge  of  the  water ;  down  almost 
into  the  sea  she  creeps,  between  two  rocks,  upon  her 
hands  and  knees,  and  crovfches,  face  downward,  with 
Ringe  nestled  close  beneath  her  breast,  not  daring  to 
move  through  the  long  hours  that  must  pass  before  the 
sun  will  rise  again.  She  is  so  near  the  ocean  she  can 
almost  reach  the  water  with  her  hand.  Had  the  wind 
breathed  the  least  roughly  the  waves  must  have  washed 


BY  CELIA   THAXTER.  281 

over  her.  There  let  us  leave  her  and  go  back  to  Louis 
Wagner.  Maren  heard  her  sister  Karen's  shrieks  as 
she  tied.  The  poor  girl  had  crept  into  an  unoccupied 
room  in  a  distant  part  of  the  house,  striving  to  hide 
herself.  He  could  not  kill  her  with  blows,  blundering 
in  the  darkness,  so  he  wound  a  handkerchief  about  her 
throat  and  strangled  her.  But  now  he  seeks  anxiously 
for  Maren.  Has  she  escaped  ?  What  terror  is  in  the 
thought  !  Escaped,  to  tell  the  tale,  to  accuse  him  as 
the  murderer  of  her  sisters.  Hurriedly,  with  desperate 
anxiety,  he  seeks  for  her.  His  time  was  growing  short ; 
jt  was  not  in  his  programme  that  this  brave  little 
creature  should  give  him  so  much  trouble ;  he  had  not 
calculated  on  resistance  from  these  weak  and  helpless 
women.  Already  it  was  morning,  soon  it  would  be 
daylight.  He  could  not  find  her  in  or  near  the  house ; 
he  went  down  to  the  empty  and  dilapidated  houses 
about  the  cove,  and  sought  her  everywhere.  What  a 
picture !  That  bloodstained  butcher,  with  his  dark 
face,  crawling  about  those  cellars,  peering  for  that 
woman  !  He  dared  not  spend  any  more  time ;  he 
must  go  back  for  the  money  he  hoped  to  find,  his 
reward  for  this  !  All  about  the  house  he  searches,  in 
bureau  drawers,  in  trunks  and  boxes  ;  he  finds  fifteen 
dollars  for  his  night's  work  !  Several  hundreds  weie 
lying  between  some  sheets  folded  at  the  bcttcm  of  a 
drawer  in  which  he  looked.  But  he  cannot  stop  for 
more  throrough  investigation  ;  a  dreadful  haste  pursues 
him  like  a  thousand  fiends.  He  drags  Anethe's  stiffen- 
ing body  into  the  house,  and  leaves  it  on  the  kitchen 
floor.  If  the  thought  crosses  his  mind  to  set  fire  to 
the  house  and  burn  up  his  two  victims,  he  dares  not 
do  it ;  it  will  make  a  fatal  bonfire  to  light  his  homeward 
way;  besides,  it  is  useless,  for  Maren  has  escaped  to 
accuse  him,  and  the  time  presses  so  hoiribly! 

But  how  cool  a  monster  is  he  !  After  all  this  hard 
work  he  must  have  refreshment,  to  support  him  in  the 
long  row  back  to  the  land;  knife  and  fork,  cup  and 
plate,  were  found  next  morning  on  the  table  near  where 
Anethe  lay;  fragments  of  food  which  was  not  cooked 
in  the  house,  but  brought  from  Portsmouth,  were  scat- 
tered about.  Tidy  Maren  had  left  neither  dishes  nor 
food  when  they  went  to  bed.  The  handle  of  the  tea- 
pot which  she  had  left  on  the  stove  was  stained  and 


282  A  MEMORABLE  MURDER. 

smeared  with  blood.  Can  the  human  mind  conceive 
of  such  hideous  nonchalance !  Wagner  sat  down  in 
that  room  and  ate  and  drank  !  It  is  almost  beyond 
belief !  Then  he  went  to  the  well  with  a  basin  and 
towels,  tried  to  wash  off  the  blood,  and  left  towels  and 
basin  in  the  well.  He  knows  he  must  be  gone !  It  is 
certain  death  to  linger.  He  takes  his  boat  and  rows 
away  towards  the  dark  coast  and  the  twinkling  lights ; 
it  is  for  dear  life,  now  !  What  powerful  strokes  send 
the  small  skiff  rushing  over  the  water  ! 

There  is  no  longer  any  moon,  the  night  is  far  spent; 
already  the  east  changes,  the  stars  fade ;  he  rows  like 
a  madman  to  reach  the  land,  but  a  blush  of  morning  is 
stealing  up  the  sky,  and  sunrise  is  rosy  over  shore  and 
sea,  when  panting,  trembling,  weary,  a  creature  accursed, 
a  blot  on  the  face  of  the  day  he  lands  at  Newcastle — 
too  late  !  Too  late  !  In  vain  he  casts  the  dory  adrift ; 
she  will  not  float  away  ;  the  flood  tide  bears  her  back 
to  give  her  testimony  against  him,  and  afterward  she  is 
found  at  Jaffrey's  Point,  near  the  "Devil's  Den,"  and 
the  fact  of  her  worn  thole-pins  noted.  Wet,  covered 
with  ice  from  the  spray  which  has  flown  from  his  eager 
oars,  utterly  exhausted,  he  creeps  to  a  knoll  and  recon- 
noitres ;  he  thinks  he  is  unobserved,  and  crawls  on 
towards  Portsmouth.  But  he  is  seen  and  recognized 
by  many  persons,  and  his  identity  established  beyond 
a  doubt.  He  goes  to  the  house  of  Mathew  Jonsen, 
where  he  has  been  living,  steals  upstairs,  changes  his 
clothes,  and  appears  before  the  family,  anxious,  fright- 
ened, agitated,  telling  Jonsen  he  never  felt  so  badly  in 
his  life  ;  that  he  has  got  into  trouble  and  is  afraid  he 
shall  be  taken.  He  cannot  eat  at  breakfast,  says  "  fare- 
well forever,"  goes  away  and  is  shaved,  and  takes  the 
train  to  Boston,  where  he  provides  himself  with  new 
clothes,  shoes,  a  complete  outfit,  but  lingering,  held  by 
fate,  he  cannot  fly,  and  before  night  the  officer's  hand 
is  on  his  shoulder  and  he  is  arrested. 

Meanwhile  poor  shuddering  Maren  on  the  lonclv 
island,  by  the  water-side,  waits  "till  the  sun  is  high  M 
heaven  before  she  dares  to  come  forth.  She  thinks  lie 
may  be  still  on  the  island.  She  said  to  me,  "  I  thought 
he  must  be  theie,  dead  or  alive.  I  thought  he  might 
go  crazy  and  kill  himself  after  having  clone  all  that." 
At  last  she  steals  out.  The  little  dog  frisks  before 


BY  CELIA  THAXTER.  283 

her ;  it  is  so  cold  her  feet  cling  to  the  rocks  and  snow 
at  every  step,  till  the  skin  is  fairly  torn  off.  Still  and 
frosty  is  the  bright  morning,  the  water  lies  smiling 
and  sparkling,  the  hammers  of  the  workmen  building 
the  new  hotel  on  Star  Island  sound  through  the  quiet 
air.  Being  on  the  side  of  Smutty-Nose  opposite  Star, 
she  waves  her  skirt,  and  screams  to  attract  their  atten- 
tion ;  they  hear  her,  turn  and  look,  see  a  woman  waving 
a  signal  of  distress,  and,  surprising  to  relate,  turn 
tranquilly  to  their  work  again.  She  realizes  at  last 
there  is  no  hope  in  that  direction  ;  she  must  go  round 
toward  Appledore  in  sight  of  the  dreadful  house.  Pass- 
ing it  afar  off  she  gives  one  swift  glance  toward  it, 
terrified  lest  in  the  broad  sunshine  she  may  see  some 
horrid  token  of  last  night's  work  ;  but  all  is  still  and 
peaceful.  She  notices  the  curtains  the  three  had  left 
up  when  they  went  to  bed  ;  they  are  now  drawn  down  ; 
she  knows  whose  hand  has  done  this,  and  what  it  hides 
from  the  light  of  clay.  Sick  at  heart,  she  makes  her 
painful  way  to  the  northern  edge  of  Malaga,  which  is 
connected  with  Smutty-Nose  by  the  old  sea-wall.  She 
is  directly  opposite  Appledore  and  the  little  cottage 
where  abide  her  friend  and  countryman,  Jorge  Edvardt 
Ingebertsen,  and  his  wife  and  children.  Only  a  quarter 
of  a  mile  of  the  still  ocean  separates  her  from  safety 
and  comfort.  She  sees  the  children  playing  about  the 
door  ;  she  calls  and  calls.  Will  no  one  ever  hear  her? 
Her  torn  feet  torment  her,  she  is  sore  with  blows  and 
perishing  with  cold.  At  last  her  voice  reaches  the  ears 
of  the  children,  who  run  and  tell  their  father  that  some 
one  is  crying  and  calling;  looking  across,  he  sees 
the  poor  little  figure  waving  her  arms,  takes  his  dory 
and  paddles  over,  and  with  amazement  recognizes 
Maren  in  her  night-dress,  with  bare  feet  and  streaming 
hair,  with  a  cruel  bruise  upon  her  face,  with  wild  eyes, 
distracted,  half  senseless  with  cold  and  terror.  He 
cries,  "  Maren,  Maren,  who  has  clone  this  ?  what  is  it  ? 
who  is  it  ? "  and  her  only  answer  is  "  Louis,  Louis, 
Louis  !  "  as  he  takes  her  on  board  his  boat  and  rows 
home  with  her  as  fast  as  he  can.  From  her  incoherent 
statement  he  learns  what  has  happened.  Leaving  her 
in  the  care  of  his  family,  he  comes  over  across  the  hill 
to  the  great  house  on  Appledore.  As  I  sit  at  my  desk 
I  see  him  pass  the  window,  and  wonder  why  the  old 


284  A  MEMORABLE  MURDER. 

man  comes  so  fast  and  anxiously  through  the  heavy 
snow. 

Presently  I  see  him  going  back  again,  accompanied 
by  several  of  his  own  countrymen  and  others  of  our 
workmen,  carrying  guns.  They  are  going  to  Smutty- 
Nose,  and  take  arms,  thinking  it  possible  Wagner  may 
ye*  be  there.  I  call  down-stairs,  "What  has  hap- 
pened ?  "  and  am  answered,  "  Some  trouble  at  Smutty- 
Nose  ;  we  hardly  understand."  "  Probably  a  drunken 
brawl  of  the  reckless  fishermen  who  may  have  landed 
there,"  I  say  to  myself,  and  go  on  with  my  work.  In 
another  half-hour  I  see  the  men  returning,  reinforced 
by  others,  coming  fast,  confusedly ;  and  suddenly  a  wail 
of  anguish  comes  up  from  the  women  below.  I  cannot 
believe  it  when  I  hear  them  crying,  "  Karen  is  dead ! 
Anethe  is  dead !  Louis  Wagner  has  murdered  them 
both  !  "  I  run  out  into  the  servants'  quarters  ;  there  are 
all  the  men  assembled,  an  awe-stricken  crowd.  Old 
Ingebertsen  comes  forward  and  tells  me  the  bare  facts, 
and  how  Maren  lies  at  his  house,  half-crazy,  suffering 
with  her  torn  and  frozen  feet.  Then  the  men  are  dis- 
patched to  search  Appledore,  to  find  if  by  any  chance 
the  murderer  might  be  concealed  about  the  place,  and 
I  go  over  to  Maren  to  see  if  I  can  do  anything  for  her. 
I  find  the  women  and  children  with  frightened  faces  at 
the  little  cottage ;  as  I  go  into  the  room  where  Maren 
lies,  she  catches  my  hands,  crying,  "  Oh,  I  so  glad  to 
see  you !  I  so  glad  I  save  my  life  ! "  and  with  her  dry 
lips  she  tells  me  all  the  story  as  I  have  told  it  here. 
Poor  little  creature,  holding  me  with  those  wild,  glitter- 
ing, dilated  eyes,  she  cannot  tell  me  rapidly  enough  the 
whole  horrible  tale.  Upon  her  cheek  is  yet  the  blood- 
stain from  the  blow  he  struck  her  with  a  chair,  and  she 
shows  me  two  more  upon  her  shoulder,  and  ^ier  torn 
feet.  I  go  back  for  arnica  with  which  to  bathe  them. 
What  a  mockery  seems  to  me  the  "jocund  day"  as  I 
emerge  into  the  sunshine,  and  looking  across  the  space 
of  blue,  sparkling  water,  see  the  house  wherein  all  thai 
horror  lies ! 

Oh,  brightly  shines  the  morning  sun  and  glitters  on 
the  white  sails  of  the  little  vessel  that  comes  dancing 
back  from  Portsmouth  before  the  favoring  wind,  with 
the  two  husbands  on  board  !  Mow  glad  they  are  for  the 
sweet  morning  and  the  fair  wind  that  brings  them  home 


BY  CELIA   THAXTER.  285 

again  !  And  Ivan  sees  in  fancy  Anethe's  face  all  beauti- 
ful with  welcoming  smiles,  and  John  knows  how  happy 
his  good  and  faithful  Maren  will  be  to  see  him  back 
again.  Alas,  how  little  they  dream  what  lies  before 
them  !  From  Appledore  they  are  signalled  to  come 
ashore,  and  Ivan  and  Mathew,  landing,  hear  a  con- 
tused rumor  of  trouble  from  tongues  that  hardly  can 
frame  the  words  that  must  tell  the  dreadful  truth. 
Ivan  only  understands  that  something  is  wrong.  His 
one  thought  is  for  Anethe ;  he  flies  to  Ingebertsen's 
cottage,  she  may  be  there ;  he  rushes  in  like  a  maniac, 
crying,  "Anethe,  Anethe!  Where  is  Anethe?"  and 
broken-hearted  Maren  answers  her  brother,  "Anethe  is 
— at  home."  He  does  not  wait  for  another  word,  but 
seizes  the  little  boat  and  lands  at  the  same  time  with 
John  on  Smutty-Nose  ;  with  headlong  haste  they  reach 
the  house,  other  men  accompanying  them;  ah,  there 
are  blood-stains  all  about  the  snow !  Ivan  is  the  first  to 
burst  open  the  door  and  enter.  What  words  can  tell 
it !  There  upon  the  floor,  naked,  stiff  and  stark,  is  the 
woman  he  idolizes,  for  whose  dear  feet  he  could  not 
make  life's  ways  smooth  and  pleasant  enough — stone 
dead  !  Dead — horribly  butchered  !  her  bright  hair 
stiff  with  blood,  the  fair  head  that  had  so  often  rested 
on  his  breast  crushed,  cloven,  mangled  with  the  brutal 
ax  !  Their  eyes  are  blasted  by  the  intolerable  sight  : 
both  John  and  Ivan  stagger  out  and  fall,  senseless,  in 
the  srfow.  Poor  Ivan !  his  wife  a  thousand  times 
adored,  the  dear  girl  he  had  brought  from  Norway,  the 
good  sweet  girl  who  loved  him  so,  whom  he  could  not 
cherish  tenderly  enough  !  And  he  was  not  there  to 
protect  her !  There  was  no  one  there  to  save  her ! 

"  Did  heaven  look  on 
And  would  not  take  their  part  !  " 

Poor  fellow,  what  had  he  done  that  fate  should  deal 
him  such  a  blow  as  this  !  Dumb,  blind  with  anguish, 
he  made  no  sign. 

"  What  says  the  body  when  they  spring 
Some  monstrous  torture-engine's  whole 
Strength  on  it  ?    No  more  says  the  soul." 

Some  of  his  pitying  comrades  lead  him  away,  like  one 
stupefied,  and  take  him  back  to  Appledore.  John 


286  A  MEMORABLE  MURDER. 

knows  his  wife  is  safe.  Though  stricken  with  horror 
and  consumed  with  wrath,  he  is  not  paralyzed  like  poor 
Ivan,  who  has  been  smitten  with  worse  than  death, 
They  find  Karen's  body  in  another  part  of  the  house, 
covered  with  blows  and  black  in  the  face,  strangled. 
They  find  Louis's  tracks, — all  the  tokens  of  his  disas- 
trous presence, — the  contents  of  trunks  and  drawers 
scattered  about  in  his  hasty  search  for  the  money,  and 
all  within  the  house  and  without,  blood,  blood,  every- 
where. 

When  I  reach  the  cottage  with  the  arnica  for  Maren, 
they  have  returned  to  Smutty-Nose.  John,  her  hus- 
band, is  there.  He  is  a  young  man  of  the  true  Norse 
type,  blue-eyed,  fair-haired,  tall  and  well  made,  with 
handsome  teeth  and  bronzed  beard.  Perhaps  he  is  a 
little  quiet  and  undemonstrative  generally,  but  at  this 
moment  he  is  superb,  kindled  from  head  to  feet,  a 
firebrand  of  woe  and  wrath,  with  eyes  that  flash  and 
cheeks  that  burn.  I  speak  a  few  words  to  him, — what 
words  can  meet  such  an  occasion  as  this  ! — and  having 
given  directions  about  the  use  of  the  arnica,  for  Maren, 
I  go  away,  for  nothing  more  can  be  done  for  her,  and 
every  comfort  she  needs  is  hers.  The  outer  room  is 
full  of  men ;  they  make  way  for  me,  and  as  I  pass 
through  I  catch  a  glimpse  of  Ivan  crouched  with  his 
arms  thrown  round  his  knees  and  his  head  bowed  down 
between  them,  motionless,  his  attitude  expressing  such 
abandonment  of  despair  as  cannot  be  described.  His 
whole  person  seems  to  shrink,  as  if  deprecating  the 
blow  that  has  fallen  upon  him. 

All  day  the  slaughtered  women  lie  as  they  were 
found,  for  nothing  can  be  touched  till  the  officers  of 
the  law  have  seen  the  whole.  And  John  goes  back  to 
Portsmouth  to  tell  his  tale  to  the  proper  authorities. 
What  a  different  voyage  from  the  one  he  had  just 
taken,  when  happy  and  careless  he  was  returning  to 
the  home  he  had  left  so  full  of  peace  and  comfort  ^ 
What  a  load  he  bears  back  with  him,  as  he  makes  his 
tedious  way  across  the  miles  that  separate  him  from 
the  means  of  vengeance  he  burns  to  reach  !  But  at  last 
he  arrives,  tells  his  story,  the  police  at  other  cities  are 
at  once  telegraphed,  and  the  city  marshal  follows 
Wagner  to  Boston.  At  eight  o'clock  that  evening 
comes  the  steamer  Mayflower  to  the  Shoals,  with  all 


BY  CELIA   THAXTER.  287 

the  officers  on  board.  They  land  and  make  investiga- 
tions at  Smutty-Nose,  then  come  here  to  Appledore  and 
examine  Maren,  and,  when  everything  is  done  steam 
back  to  Portsmouth,  which  they  reach  at  three  o'clock 
in  the  morning.  After  all  are  gone  and  his  awful  day's 
work  is  finished  at  last,  poor  John  comes  back  to 
Maren,  and  kneeling  by  the  side  of  her  bed,  he  is 
u'terly  overpowered  with  what  he  has  passed  through  ; 
he  is  shaken  with  sobs  as  he  cries,  "  Oh,  Maren,  Maren, 
it  is  too  much,  too  much!  I  cannot  bear  it!"  Ami 
Maren  throws  her  arms  about  his  neck,  crying,  "  Oh 
John,  John,  don't !  I  shall  be  crazy,  I  shall  die  if  you 
go  on  like  that."  Poor  innocent,  unhappy  people,  who 
never  wronged  a  fellow-creature  in  their  lives  ! 

But  Ivan — what  is  their  anguish  to  his?  They  dare 
not  leave  him  alone  lest  he  do  himself  an  injury.  He 
is  perfectly  mute  and  listless  ;  he  cannot  weep,  he  can 
neither  eat  nor  sleep.  He  sits  like  one  in  a  horrid 
dream.  "  Oh,  my  poor,  poor  brother  !  "  Maren  cries 
in  tones  of  deepest  grief,  when  I  speak  his  name  to  her 
next  day.  She  herself  cannot  rest  a  moment  till  she 
hears  that  Louis  is  taken ;  at  every  sound  her  crazed 
imagination  fancies  he  is  coming  back  for  her  ;  she  is 
fairly  beside  herself  with  terror  and  anxiety  ;  but  the 
night  following  that  of  the  catastrophe  brings  us  news 
that  he  is  arrested,  and  there  is  stern  rejoicing  at  the 
Shoals  ;  but  no  vengeance  on  him  can  bring  back  those 
unoffending  lives,  or  restore  that  gentle  home.  The 
dead  are  properly  cared  for ;  the  blood  is  washed  from 
Anethe's  beautiful  bright  hair;  she  is  clothed  in  her 
wedding-dress,  the  blue  dress  in  which  she  was  mar- 
ried, poor  child,  that  happy  Christmas  time  in  Norway, 
a  little  more  than  a  year  ago.  They  are  carried  across 
the  sea  to  Portsmouth,  the  burial  service  is  read  over 
them,  and  they  are  hidden  in  the  earth.  After  poor 
Ivan  has  seen  the  faces  of  his  wife  and  sister  still  and 
pale  in  their  coffins,  their  ghastly  wounds  concealed  as 
much  as  possible,  flowers  upon  them  and  the  priest 
praying  over  them,  his  trance  of  misery  is  broken,  the 
grasp  of  despair  is  loosened  a  little  about  his  heart. 
Yet  hardly  does  he  notice  whether  the  sun  shines  or 
no,  or  care  whether  he  lives  or  dies.  Slowly  his  senses 
steady  themselves  from  the  effects  of  a  shock  that 
nearly  destroyed  him,  and  merciful  time,  with  imper- 


288  A  MEMORABLE  MURDER. 

ceptible  touch,  softens  day  by  day  the  outlines  of  that 
picture,  at  the  memory  of  which  he  will  never  cease  to 
shudder  while  he  lives. 

Louis  Wagner  was  captured  in  Boston  on  the  even- 
ing of  the  next  day  after  his  atrocious  deed,  and  Friday 
morning,  followed  by  a  hooting  mob,  he.  was  taken  to 
the  Eastern  depot.  At  every  station  along  the  route- 
crowds  were  assembled,  and  there  were  fierce  cries  for 
vengeance.  At  the  depot  in  Portsmouth  a  dense 
crowd  of  thousands  of  both  sexes  had  gathered,  who 
assailed  him  with  yells  and  curses  and  cries  of  "  Tear 
him  to  pieces  !  "  It  was  with  difficulty  he  was  at  last 
safely  imprisoned.  Poor  Maren  was  taken  to  Ports- 
mouth from  Appledore  on  that  day.  The  story  of 
Wagner's  day  in  Boston,  like  every  other  detail  of  the 
affair,  has  been  told  by  every  newspaper  in  the  coun- 
try :  his  agitation  and  restlessness,  noted  by  all  who 
saw  him;  his  curious  reckless  talk.  To  one  he  says, 
"  I  have  just  killed  two  sailors ;  "  to  another,  Jacob 
Toldttnan,  into  whose- shop  he  goes  to  buy  shoes,  "  J 
have  seen  a  woman  lie  as  still  as  that  boot,"  and  so 
on.  When  he  is  caught  he  puts  on  a  bold  face  and 
determines  to  brave  it  out;  denies  everything  with 
tears  and  virtuous  indignation.  The  men  whom  he 
has  so  fearfully  wronged  are  confronted  with  him ;  his 
attitude  is  one  of  injured  innocence  ;  he  surveys  them 
more  in  sorrow  than  in  anger,  while  John  is  on  fire 
with  wrath  and  indignation,  and  hurls  maledictions  at 
him ;  but  Ivan,  poor  Ivan,  hurt  beyond  all  hope  or 
help,  is  utterly  mute;  he  does  not  utter  one  word.  Of 
what  use  is  it  to  curse  the  murderer  of  his  wife  ?  It 
will  not  bring  her  back;  he  has  no  heart  for  cursing, 
he  is  too  completely  broken.  Maren  told  me  the  first 
time  she  was  brought  into  Louis's  presence,  her  heart 
leaped  so  fast  she  could  hardly  breathe.  She  entered 
the  room  softly  with  her  husband  and  Mathew  Jon- 
sen's  daughter.  Louis  was  whittling  a  stick.  He 
looked  up  and  saw  her  face,  and  the  color  ebbed  out 
of  his,  and  rushed  back  and  stood  in  one  burning  spot 
in  his  cheek,  as  he  looked  at  her  and  she  looked  at 
him  for  a  space,  in  silence.  Then  he  drew  about  his 
evil  mind  the  detestable  garment  of  sanctimoniousness, 
and  in  sentimental  accents  he  murmured,  "  I'm  glad 
Jesus  loves  me ! "  "  The  devil  loves  you  ! "  cried  John, 


B  Y  CELIA   THAXTER.  289 

with  uncompromising  veracity.  "  I  know  it  wasn't 
nice,"  said  decorous  Maron,  "  but  John  couldn't  help 
it ;  it  was  too  much  to  bear ! " 

The  next  Saturday  afternoon,  when  he  was  to  be 
taken  to  Saco,  hundreds  of  fishermen  came  to  Ports- 
mouth from  all  parts  of  the  coast,  determined  on  his 
destruction,  and  there  was  a  fearful  scene  in  the  quiet 
streets  of  that  peaceful  city  when  he  was  being  escorted 
to  the  train  by  the  police  and  various  officers  of  justice. 
Two  thousand  people  had  assembled,  and  such  a  furi- 
ous, yelling  crowd  was  never  seen  or  heard  in  Ports- 
mouth. The  air  was  rent  with  cries  for  vengeance; 
showers  of  bricks  and  stones  were  thrown  from  all 
directions,  and  wounded  several  of  the  officers  who 
surrounded  Wagner.  His  knees  trembled  under  him, 
he  shook  like  an  aspen,  and  the  officers  found  it  neces- 
sary to  drag  him  along,  telling  him  he  must  keep  up  if 
he  would  save  his  life.  Except  that  they  feared  to 
injure  the  innocent  as  well  as  the  guilty,  those  men 
would  have  literally  torn  him  to  pieces.  But  at  last  he 
was  put  on  board  the  cars  in  safety,  and  carried  away 
to  prison.  His  demeanor  throughout  the  term  of  his 
confinement,  and  during  his  trial  and  subsequent  im- 
prisonment, was  a  wonderful  piece  of  acting.  He 
really  inspired  people  with  doubt  as  to  his  guilt.  I 
make  an  extract  from  the  Portsmouth  Chronicle,  dated 
March  i3th,  1873:  "Wagner  still  retains  his  amazing 
sang  froid,  which  is  wonderful,  even  in  a  strong-nerved 
German.  The  sympathy  of  most  of  the  visitors  at  his 
jail  has  certainly  been  won  by  his  calmness  and  his 
general  appearance,  which  is  quite  prepossessing." 
This  little  instance  of  his  method  of  proceeding  I  must 
subjoin  :  A  lady  who  had  come  to  converse  with  him 
on  the  subject  of  his  eternal  salvation  said,  as  she  left 
him,  "  I  hope  you  put  your  trust  in  the  Lord,"  to  which 
he  sweetly  answered,  "I  always  did,  ma'am,  and  I 
always  shall." 

A  few  weeks  after  all  this  had  happened,  I  sat  by 
the  window  one  afternoon,  and,  looking  up  from  my 
work,  I  saw  some  one  passing  slowly, — a  young  man 
who  seemed  so  thin,  so  pale,  so  bent  and  ill,  that  I 
said,  "  Here  is  some  stranger  who  is  so  very  sick,  he  is 
probably  come  to  try  the  effect  of  the  air;  even  thus 
early."  It  was  Ivan  Christensen.  I  did  not  recognize 
19 


290  A  MEMORABLE  MURDER. 

him.  He  dragged  one  foot  after  the  other  wearily,  and 
walked  with  the  feeble  motion  of  an  old  man.  He 
entered  the  house;  his  errand  was  to  ask  for  work. 
He  could  not  bear  to  go  away  from  the  neighborhood 
of  the  place  where  Anethe  had  lived  and  where  they 
had  been  so  happy,  and  he  could  not  bear  to  work  at 
fishing  on  the  south  side  of  the  island,  within  sight  of 
that  house.  There  was  work  enough  for  him  here ;  a 
kind  voice  told  him  so,  a  kind  hand  was  laid  on  his 
shoulder,  and  he  was  bidden  come  and  welcome.  The 
tears  rushed  into  the  poor  fellow's  eyes,  he  went  hastily 
away,  and  that  night  sent  over  his  chest  of  tools, — he 
was  a  carpenter  by  trade.  Next  day  he  took  up  his 
abode  here  and  worked  all  summer.  Every  day  I  care- 
fully observed  him  as  I  passed  him  by,  regarding  him 
with  an  inexpressible  pity,  of  which  he  was  perfectly 
unconscious,  as  he  seemed  to  be  of  everything  and 
everybody.  He  never  raised  his  head  when  he  an- 
swered my  "  Good-morning,"  or  "  Good-evening,  Ivan." 
Though  I  often  wished  to  speak,  I  never  said  more  to 
him,  for  he  seemed  to  me  to  be  hurt  too  sorely  to  be 
touched  by  human  hand.  With  his  head  sunk  on  his 
breast,  and  wearily  dragging  his  limbs,  he  pushed  the 
plane  or  drove  the  saw  to  and  fro  with  a  kind  of 
dogged  persistence,  looking  neither  to  the  left  nor 
right.  Well  might  the  weight  of  woe  he  carried  bow 
him  to  the  earth !  By  and  by  he  spoke,  himself,  to 
other  members  of  the  household,  saying,  with  a  patient 
sorrow,  he  believed  it  was  to  have  been,  it  had  so  been 
ordered,  else  why  did  all  things  so  play  into  Louis's 
hands?  All  things  were  furnished  him  :  the  knowledge 
of  the  unprotected  state  of  the  women,  a  perfectly 
clear  field  in  which  to  carry  out  his  plans,  just  the 
right  boat  he  wanted  in  which  to  make  his  voyage,  fair 
tide,  fair  wind,  calm  sea,  just  moonlight  enough  ;  even 
the  ax  with  which  to  kill  Anethe  stood  ready  to  his 
hand  at  the  house  door.  Alas,  it  was  to  have  been ! 
Last  summer  Ivan  went  back  again  to  Norway — alone. 
Hardly  is  it  probable  that  he  will  ever  return  to  a  land 
whose  welcome  to  him  fate  made  so  horrible.  His 
sister  Maren  and  her  husband  still  live  blameless  lives, 
with  the  little  dog  Ringe,  in  a  new  home  they  have 
made  for  themselves  in  Portsmouth,  not  far  from  the 
riverside  ;  the  merciful  lapse  of  days  and  years  takes 


BY  CELIA  THAXTER.  2QI 

them  gently  but  surely  away  from  the  thought  of  that 
season  of  anguish  ;  and  though  they  can  never  forget  it 
all,  they  have  grown  resigned  and  quiet  again.  And 
on  the  island  other  Norwegians  have  settled,  voices  of 
charming  children  sound  sweetly  in  the  solitude  that 
echoed  so  awfully  to  the  shrieks  of  Karen  and  Maren. 
But  to  the  weirdness  of  the  winter  midnight  something 
is  added,  a  vision  of  two  dim,  reproachful  shades  who 
watch  while  an  agonized  ghost  prowls  eternally  about 
the  dilapidated  houses  at  the  beach's  edge,  close  by 
the  black,  whispering  water,  seeking  for  the  woman 
who  has  escaped  him — escaped  to  bring  upon  him  the 
death  he  deserves,  whom  he  never,  never,  never  can 
find,  though  his  distracted  spirit  may  search  till  man 
shall  vanish  from  off  the  face  of  the  earth,  and  time 
shall  be  no  more. 


A  CUP  OF  COLD  WATER, 


BY 


GRACE  GREENWOOD. 


MRS.  SARA  j.  LIPPINCOTT, 


GRACE  GREENWOOD,  was  born  in  Pompey,  Onondaga 
County,  N.  Y.,  in  1823.  Her  father  was  a  well-known 
physician,  Dr.  Thaddeus  Clarke.  Miss  Clarke  was 
educated  at  Rochester,  but  removed  with  her  family 
in  1842  to  New  Brighton,  Pennsylvania.  She  pub- 
lished occasional  verses  at  an  early  age  ;  in  1844,  began 
writing  prose  for  the  New  York  Mirror,  and  soon  after 
for  the  Home  Journal  and  the  literary  magazines  of  the 
day.  In  the  spring  of  1852  she  made  her  first  visit  to 
Europe.  In  the  autumn  of  the  year  following  she  was 
married  to  Mr.  L.  K.  Lippincott,  of  Philadelphia,  and 
commenced  the  publication  cf  The  Little  Pilgrim,  a 
monthly  magazine  for  young  folks.  Her  contributions 
to  this  were  remarkable  for  the  happy  manner  in  which 
they  conveyed  historical  and  biographical  information. 
Her  best  known  books  for  children  are  entitled,  "  His- 
tory of  My  Pets  "  (1850)  ;  "  Recollections  of  My  Child- 
hood "  (1851);  "  Stories  of  Many  Lands"  (1866); 
"  Merrie  England "  (1854)  ;  "  Bonnie  Scotland " 
(1860);  "Stories  and  Legends  of  Travel  and  His- 
tory " ;  "  Stories  and  Sights  cf  France  and  Italy " 
(1867).  The  volumes  for  older  readers  are  two  series 
of  collected  prose  writings,  "Greenwood  Leaves" 
(1849,  1851);  "  Poems  "  (1850)  ;  "Haps  and  Mishaps 
of  a  Tour  in  Europe"  (1852);  "A  Forest  Tragedy" 
(1856);  "A  Record  of  Five  Years"  (1867);  "New 
Life  in  New  Lands"  (1873);  "  Victoria,  Queen  of 
England."  This  last  was  published,  in  1883,  by 
Anderson  &  Allen  of  New  York,  and  Sampson,  Low 
&  Marston,  London.  Grace  Greenwood  has  been  con- 
nected as  editor  and  contributor  with  various  American 
magazines,  and  leading  weekly  and  daily  papers, 
Mrs.  Lippincott  has  written  much  for  London  journals. 


300  MRS.  SARA  J.  LIPPINCOTT. 

especially  for  All  the  Year  Round.  During  the 
past  eight  years  she  has  lived  almost  wholly  in  Europe, 
for  the  benefit  of  her  greatly  impaired  health  and  for 
the  education  of  her  daughter.  She  is  a  cosmopolitan, 
and  greatly  enjoyed  the  character  her  friends  gave  her 
of  wanderer.  Mrs.  Lippincott  is  a  writer  of  wide 
fame  and  well-earned  celebrity.  The  amount  of  brain- 
work  she  has  accomplished  in  journalism  no  one  can 
properly  estimate.  Her  contributions  have  been  con- 
tinuous, and  they  extend  over  many  years.  She  has  a 
happy  descriptive  faculty,  which  has  enabled  her  to 
write  interestingly  of  scenes  and  events  observed  in 
her  travels,  and  she  is  of  a  nature  so  sunny  that  her 
word-pictures  are  always  fascinating  and  instinctively 
entertaining.  Mrs.  Lippincott  is  now  again  a  resident 
of  her  own  country,  and  will  live  permanently  in  New 
York. 


A  CUP  OF  COLD  WATER. 


SHORTLY  after  the  close  of  the  great  war,  I  trav- 
elled on  the  railway  for  some  hours  of  a  bright,  June 
day,  seated  beside  a  young  soldier,  a  cavalryman, 
from  Wisconsin,  who  was  on  his  way  home,  with 
an  honorable  discharge,  after  a  service  of  four  years. 
My  fellow-traveller  proved  to  be  quite  intelligent 
and  sociably  inclined,  and  beguiled  the  way  by  re- 
lating many  incidents  of  the  battle-field,  and  of  camp 
and  hospital  life.  One  of  the  simplest  of  his  stories, 
told  with  an  appearance  of  the  utmost  good  faith,  I 
have  never  forgotten — remembering  distinctly  every 
derail,  while  some  of  his  more  marvellous  and  tragical 
narrations  have  quite  faded  from  my  mind. 

"  Our  regiment,"  he  said,  "  was  under  Banks,  in  the 
spring  of  1862,  when  he  made  such  good  time  in  get- 
ting down  the  Shenandoah  Valley,  It  was  an  awful, 
driving,  confused,  exhausting,  hurry-skurry  '  change  of 
base,'  but  it's  curious  that  I  chiefly  remember  it  by  a 
little  incident,  which  perhaps  you  will  think  was  hardly 
worth  laying  up,  and  is  hardly  worth  telling  of." 

I  signified  my  desire  to  hear  his  little  story  and  he 
went  on  : 

"  I  was  one  morning  dispatched,  in  hot  haste,  to  the 
extreme  rear,  with  a  very  important  order.  As  ill-luck 
would  have  it,  I  had  to  ride  a  strange  horse,  as  my 
own  .had  fallen  lame.  The  one  provided  for  me  proved 
just  the  most  ill-natured,  vicious  brute  I  ever  mounted. 
I  had  hard  work  to  mount  him  at  all,  for  his  furious 
rearing  and  plunging;  and  when,  at  last,  I  reached 
the  saddle,  he  was  so  enraged,  there  was  no  getting 
him  on  for  a*  least  five  minutes.  With  his  ugly  head 
down,  and  his  ears  back,  he  would  whirl  round  and 
round,  pivoting  on  his  fore-feet,  and  lashing  out  with 
his  hind-legs,  till  I  fancy  they  must  have  looked  like 
the  spokes  of  a  big  wheel.  When  he  found  that  I  was 
301 


3<D2  A  CUP  OF  COLD  WA  TER. 

master  of  the  situation,  that  my  hand  was  firm  and  my 
spurs  were  sharp,  he  gave  in — till  the  next  time  ;  but 
I  knew  that  he  was  continually  watching  for  a  chance 
to  fling  me  over  his  head  and  trample  the  mastership 
out  of  me. 

"I  rode  hard  that  day,  both  because  of  my  orders, 
and  for  the  purpose  of  putting  that  devil  of  a  horse 
through ;  but  there  were  many  obstructions  in  the 
road — marching  columns,  artillery,  army-wagons,  and, 
above  all,  hosts  of  contrabands,  who  were  always 
scrambling  to  get  out  of  your  way,  just  into  your  way  ; 
so  it  was  noon  before  I  had  made  half  of  my  distance. 
It  was  a  hot,  sultry,  and  dusty  day.  I  had  exhausted 
my  canteen,  and  was  panting,  with  tongue  almost 
lolling,  like  a  dog.  Just  as  my  thirst  was  becoming 
quite  unbearable,  I  came  upon  a  group  of  soldiers, 
lounging  by  a  wayside  spring,  drinking  and  filling 
their  canteens.  At  first  I  thought  I  would  dismount,  as 
my  horse  seemed  pretty  well  subdued  and  bltnved;  but 
no  sooner  did  he  guess  my  intention,  than  he  began 
again  his  diabolical  friskings  and  plungings,  at  which 
the  stragglers  about  the  spring  set  up  a  provoking 
laugh,  which  brought  my  already  hot  blood  up  to  the 
boiling-point.  Still,  I  didn't  burst  out  at  once.  I 
swung  off  my  canteen,  and  said  to  one  of  the  men, 
the  only  fellow  that  hadn't  laughed  at  my  bout  with 
the  horse :  *  Here  comrade,  just  you  fill  this  for 
me.' 

"  He  was  a  tall,  dark,  heavy-browed,  surly-looking 
chap,  but,  for  all  that,  I  didn't  look  for  such  an  answer 
as  he  growled  out : 

" '  Fill  your  own  canteen,  and  be to  you ! ' 

"  I  tell  you  I  was  mad ;  the  other  fellows  laughed 
again,  and  then  I  was  madder,  and  I  just  says  to  him: 
'  You  mean  devil !  I  hope  to  God  I  shall  yet  hear  you 
begging  for  a  drink  of  water  !  If  ever  I  do,  I'll  see 
you  die,  and  go  where  you  belong,  before  I'll  give  it 
to  you  ! ' 

"  Then  I  galloped  on,  though  some  of  the  men 
called  to  me  to  come  back,  saying  they'd  fill  my 
canteen.  I  didn't  stop  till  I  reached  a  house,  a  mile 
or  two  further  on,  where  a  little  black  boy  watered 
both  me  and  my  horse,  and  filled  my  canteen,  with  a 
smile  that  the  handful  of  new  pennies  I  gave  him 


BY  GRACE  GREENWOOD.  303 

couldn't  begin  to  pay  for.  When  I  compared  the 
conduct  of  this  poor  little  chip  of  ebony,  who  said  he 
4  never  had  no  father,  nor  mother,  nor  no  name  but 
Pete,'  with  the  treatment  I  had  received  from  a  white 
fellow-soldier,  I  found  that  that  drink  of  cold  water 
hadn't  cooled  down  my  anger  much.  And  for  months 
and  months  after,  whenever  I  thought  of  that  affair, 
the  old,  mad  feeling  would  come  boiling  up.  The 
fellow's  face  always  came  out  as  clear  before  me  as  my 
own  brother's,  only  it  seemed  to  be  more  sharply  cut 
into  my  memory.  I  don't  know  why  I  resented  this 
offence  so  bitterly.  I  have  let  bigger  things  of  the 
sort  pass,  and  soon  forgotten  them  ;  but  this  stuck  by 
me.  I  am  not  a  revengeful  fellow  naturally,  but  I 
never  gave  up  the  hope  of  seeing  that  man  again,  and 
somehow  paying  him  back  for  his  brutal  insolence. 
There  wasn't  a  camp  or  review  I  was  in  for  the  next 
two  years  but  I  looked  for  him,  right  and  left.  I 
never  went  over  a  field,  after  a  battle,  but  that  I 
searched  for  him  among  the  dying — God  forgive  me  ! 
At  last  my  opportunity  came. 

"  I  had  been  wounded,  and  was  in  one  of  the  Wash- 
ington hospitals — almost  well,  yet  still  not  quite  fit  for 
duty  in  the  saddle.  I  hate,  ab:we  all  things,  to  be 
idle  ;  so  I  begged  for  light  employment  as  a  hospital 
nurse,  and  they  gave  it  to  me,  and  said  I  did  my  duty 
well. 

".I  never  felt  for  our  poor,  brave  fellows  as  I  did 
there.  I  had  been  very  fortunate,  and  until  that  sum- 
mer had  never  been  in  hospital.  Now  I  saw  such 
suffering  and  such  heroism  as  I  had  never  seen  on 
the  battle-field.  Companionship  helped  to  keep  up 
the  spirits  of  those  we  could  not  save,  to  the  last. 
Then  it  seemed  hard  that  each  brave  boy  must  make 
his  march  down  the  dark  valley  alone.  But  they  all 
went  off  gallantly.  I  would  rather  have  galloped 
forward  on  a  forlorn  charge,  any  day,  than  have  fol- 
lowed any  one  of  them  over  to  the  '  Soldiers'  Rest,' 
though  it  is  a  pretty  place  to  camp  down  in.  In  fact, 
my  heart  grew  so  soft  here,  so  Christianized,  as  it 
were,  that  I  forgot  to  look  for  my  old  enemy ;  for  so, 
you  see,  I  still  regarded  the  surly  straggler  who  refused 
me  the  water  at  roadside  spring. 

"  After  the   battles  of  the  Wilderness,  a  great  mul- 


304  A  CUP  OF  COLD  WA  TER. 

titude  of  the  wounded  were  poured  in'upon  us;  all  our 
wards  were  filled  to  overflowing.  It  was  hot,  close 
weather ;  most  of  the  patients  were  fevered  by  their 
wounds  and  exposure  to  the  sun,  and  up  and  down  the 
long,  ghastly  lines  of  white  beds  the  great  cry  was  for 
water.  I  took  a  large  pitcher  of  ice-water  and  a  tum- 
bler, and  started  on  the  round  of  my  ward,  as  eager 
to  give  as  the  poor  fellows  were  to  receive.  The  ice 
rattled  and  rung  in  the  pitcher  in  a  most  inviting  way, 
and  many  heavy  eyes  opened  at  the  sound,  and  many 
a  hot  hand  was  stretched  out,  when,  all  at  once,  on 
one  of  the  two  farthest  beds  of  the  ward,  I  saw  a  man 
startup,  with  his  face  flaming  with  fever  and  his  eyes 
gleaming,  as  he  almost  screamed  out:  'Water!  give 
me  water,  for  God's  sake  ! ' 

"  Then,  madam,  I  could  see  no  other  face  in  all  the 
ward,  for  it  was  he  f 

"  I  made  a  few  steps  towards  him,  and  saw  he 
knew  me  as  well  as  I  knew  him,  for  he  fell  back  on 
his  pillow,  and  just  turned  his  face  toward  the  wall. 
Then  the  devil  tightened  his  grip  on  me,  till  it  seemed 
he  had  me  fast  and  sure,  and  he  seemed  to  whisper  into 
my  ear :  '  Rattle  the  ice  in  the  pitcher,  and  aggravate 
him !  Go  up  and  down,  giving  water  to  all  the  others, 
and  not  a  drop  to  him  ! ' 

"  Then  something  else  whispered,  a  little  nearer, 
though  not  in  such  a  sharp,  hissing  way — conscience, 
I  suppose  it  was  ;  good  Methodists  might  call  it  the 
Holy  Spirit;  other  religious  people  might  say  it  was 
the  spirit  of  my  mother ;  and  perhaps  we  would  all 
mean  about  the  same  thing — anyhow,  it  seemed  to 
say  :  '  Now,  my  boy,  is  your  chance  to  return  good  for 
evil.  Go  to  him,  give  him  to  drink  first  of  all ! '  And 
that  something  walked  me  right  up  to  his  bedside, 
made  me  slide  my  hand  under  his  shoulder  and  raise 
him  up,  and  put  the  tumbler  to  his  lips.  How  he  drank 
I  never  can  forget — in  long,  deep  draughts,  almost  a 
tumbler  full  at  a  swallow,  looking  at  me  so  wistfully  all 
the  time.  When  he  was  satisfied,  he  fell  back,  and 
again  turned  his  face  to  the  wall,  without  a  word. 
But  somehow  I  knew  that  fellow's  heart  was  touched, 
as  no  chaplain's  sermon  or  tract  had  ever  touched  it. 

"  I  asked  the  surgeon  to  let  me  have  the  sole  care 
of  this  patient,  and  he  consented,  though  he  said  the 


BY  GRACE  GREENWOOD.  305 

man  had  a  bad  gun-shot  wound  in  the  knee,  and  would 
have  to  submit  to  an  amputation,  if  he  could  stand  it ; 
and  if  not,  would  probably  make  me  a  great  deal  of 
trouble  while  he  lasted. 

"  Weli,  I  took  charge  of  him — I  had  to  do  it,  some- 
how— but  he  kept  up  the  same  silence  with  me  for 
several  clays ;  then,  one  morning,  just  as  I  was  leaving 
his  bedside,  he  caught  hold  of  my  coat  and  pulled  me 
back.  I  bent  down  to  ask  him  what  he  wanted,  and 
he  said,  in  a  hoarse  whisper  :  '  You  remember  that 
canteen  business  in  the  Shenandoah  Valley  ?  '  '  Yes  ; 
but  it  don't  matter  now,  old  fellow,'  I  answered. 

" '  But  it  does  matter,'  he  said.  '  I  don't  know  what 
made  me  so  surly  that  day,  only  that  an  upstart  young 
lieutenant  from  our  town  had  just  been  swearing  at 
me  for  straggling ;  and  I  wasn't  to  blame,  for  I  was 
sick.  I  came  down  with  the  fever  the  next  day.  As 
for  what  I  said  to  you,  I  was  ashamed  of  it  before  you 
got  out  of  sight ;  and,  to  tell  the  truth,  I've  been  look- 
ing for  you  these  two  years,  just  to  tell  you  so.  But 
when  I  met  you  here,  where  I  was  crying,  almost  dy- 
ing, for  water,  it  seemed  so  like  the  carrying  out  of 
your  cur?e,  I  was  almost  afraid  of  you.' 

"  I  tell  you  what,  madam,  it  gave  me  strange  feelings 
to  think  of  him  looking  for  me,  to  make  up,  and  I 
looking  for  him,  to  be  revenged,  all  this  time ;  and  it 
was  such  a  little  sin,  after  all.  I'm  not  ashamed  to 
confess  that  the  tears  came  into  my  eyes  as  I  said : 
'  Now,  Eastman  (that  was  his  name  ;  he  was  a  Maine 
man),  don't  fret  about  that  little  matter  any  more ; 
it's  all  right,  and  you've  been  a  better  fellow  than  I 
all  along.' 

"  But  he  had  taken  it  to  heart,  and  was  too  weak 
to  throw  it  off.  It  was  '  so  mean,'  he  said,  '  so  un- 
soldier-like  and  bearish ; '  and  I  was  '  so  good  to  for- 
give it,'  he  insisted. 

"  I  stood  by  him  while  his  leg  was  amputated ,  and 
when,  after  a  time,  the  surgeon  said  even  that  couldn't 
save  him,  that  he  was  sinking,  I  found  that  the  man 
was  like  a  brother  to  me.  He  took  the  hard  news  that 
he  must  die,  just  as  the  war  was  almost  ended,  like  the 
brave  fellow  he  was.  He  dictated  a  last  letter  to  his 
sister,  the  only  relative  he  had ;  gave  me  some  direc- 
tions about  sending  some  keepsakes  to  her,  and  then 


306  A  CUP  OF  COLD  WA  TER. 

asked  for  the  chaplain.  This  was  a  good,  sensible, 
elderly  man,  aud  he  talked  in  about  the  right  style,  I 
think,  and  made  us  all  feel  quite  comfortable  in  the 
belief  that  in  the  Father's  house  there  must  be  a  man- 
sion for  the  poor  soldier,  who  had  so  often  camped  out 
in  snow  and  rain  ;  and  that  for  him  who  had  given  his 
all  for  his  country,  some  great  good  must  be  in  store. 

"  At  last,  the  poor  fellow  said  to  the  chaplain  :  '  Isn't 
there  something  in  the  Bible,  about  giving  a  cup  of 
cold  water  ? '  Ah  !  madam,  I  can't  tell  you  how  that 
hurt  me.  'O  Eastman!'  said  I,  don't,  don't!'  But 
he  only  smiled  as  the  chaplain  repeated  the  verse. 
Then  he  turned  to  me  and  said  :  *  You  didn't  think 
what  you  were  doing  for  yourself  when  you  gave  me 
that  glass  of  ice-water  the  other  day,  did  you,  old  fel- 
low ?  Can  I  pass  for  one  of  the  little  ones,  though, 
with  my  shd-feet-two  ? '  Then  he  went  on  talking 
about  being  little,  and  the  kingdom  of  heaven,  till  we 
almost  feared  his  mind  was  wandering ;  but  perhaps  it 
was  only  finding  its  way  home.  '  I  do  feel  strangely 
childish  to-night,"  he  said.  'I  feel  like  saying  the 
prayer-verse  my  mother  taught  me  when  she  used  to 
put  me  to  bed,  twenty-five  years  ago.  If  you'll  excuse 
me,  I'll  say  it,  all  to  myself,  before  I  go  to  sleep.' 

"  So  he  bade  us  good-night,  turned  over  on  his  pil- 
low, and  softly  shut  his  eyes ;  his  lips  moved  a  little 
while,  and  then,  indeed,  he  went  to  sleep." 


An  Evening's  Adventure, 


BY 


ABBA  GOULD  WOOLSON. 


ABBA  GOOLD  WOOLSON. 


MRS.  WOOLSON  is  the  daughter  of  Hon.  William 
Goold,  who  has  long  been  recognized  in  Portland, 
Me.,  as  an  authority  on  matters  which  concern  its 
local  history.  He  has  served  for  years  as  an  active 
member,  and  as  corresponding  secretary,  of  the  Maine 
Historical  Society ;  is  the  author  of  several  leading 
papers  in  recent  publications  of  the  society;  and  of  a 
large  volume  entitled  "  Portland  in  the  Past,"  pub- 
lished in  that  city  in  1886.  For  two  years  he  repre- 
sented the  Portland  district  in  the  State  Legislature  as 
senator,  with  a  previous  service  of  two  years  as 
representative. 

Abba  Louisa,  the  second  of  a  family  of  seven  chil- 
dren, was  born  April  30,  1838,  at  the  old  homestead  at 
Windham,  ten  miles  from  Portland,  a  town  known  as  a 
Quaker  stronghold,  but  whose  chief  claim  to  distinc- 
tion rests  on  the  fact  that  it  was  the  birthplace  of 
Gov.  John  A.  Andrew,  of  Massachusetts.  Here  her 
family  have  resided  for  four  generations  ;  her  great- 
grandfather, Benjamin  Goold — a  native  of  Kittery, 
Me. — having  removed  thither  from  Portland  (then 
Falmouth)  in  1774.  He  served  as  town  treasurer; 
his  son  Nathan  was  justice  of  the  peace ;  represented 
the  town  in  the  Massachusetts  Legislature,  when 
Maine  was  a  province  of  that  State,  and  was  made 
captain  of  the  military  company  raised  in  Gorham  and 
Windham  for  service  in  the  war  of  1812.  In  the  old 
field,  which  slopes  broadly  toward  the  west,  is  the  pri- 
vate burial-ground  of  the  family, — a  long,  low  ridge 
shaded  with  trees,  bearing  the  name  of  "  Happy  Hill." 
There  sleep  the  several  generations  of  Goolds,  from 
the  great-grandfather  aforesaid,  to  an  elder  and  be- 
loved sister,  who  died  but  a  few  years  ago. 

Her  education  was  received  in  the  several  grades  of 
the  Portland  public  scHools^  and  she  graduated  from 


312  ABBA  GOOLD  WOOLSON. 

the  Girls'  High  School  in  1856,  as  valedictorian  of  her 
class.  In  the  same  year  she  was  married  to  the  prin- 
cipal of  the  school,  Mr.  Moses  Woolson,  an  eminent 
teacher,  who  held  this  position  in  Portland  for  thirteen 
years.  In  1862,  he  was  elected  as  principal  of  the 
Woodward  High  School,  of  Cincinnati,  Ohio,  and 
there  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Woolson  resided  until  1865. 
When,  at  the  close  of  the  war,  Mr.  Woolson  was 
invited  to  take  charge  of  the  high  school  of  his  native 
city,  Concord,  New  Hampshire,  they  returned  to  New 
England.  A  call  to  a  mastership  in  the  high  school 
of  Boston,  drew  him  to  that  city  in  1868,  and  there  they 
lived  for  about  six  years,  returning  to  Concord  in  1873, 
for  another  residence  in  that  city, — this  time  of  thir- 
teen years.  Since  October,  1887,  they  have  lived  in 
Boston  again. 

During  this  time,  Mrs.  Woolson  herself  has,  for 
brief  periods,  accepted  invitations  to  teach  her  favorite 
studies,  acting  for  some  months,  while  in  Cincinnati, 
as  Professor  of  Belles  Lettres  at  the  Mount  Auburn 
Young  Ladies'  Institute  ;  in  Haverhill,  Mass.,  as  lady 
principal  of  the  high  school ;  and  as  assistant  in  the 
Concord  High  School,  where,  with  her  husband,  she 
taught  for  awhile  the  higher  mathematics  and  Latin. 

Mrs.  Woolson  has  published  four  volumes ;  viz. 
"  Women  in  American  Society  "  (1873)  ;  "  Dress- 
Reform  "  (1874)  ;  "  Browsing  Among  Books  "  (1881)  ; 
and  "  George  Eliot  and  Her  Heroines  "  (1887). 

Her  poetry  has  not  yet  been  published  in  book 
form.  When  Portland  celebrated  its  centennial  in 
1886,  with  elaborate  and  imposing  ceremonies,  Mrs. 
Woolson  was  unanimously  chosen  to  fill  the  position  of 
poet,  and  received  the  thanks  of  the  city  for  the  long 
ode  she  read  on  that  occasion.  In  Concord,  N.  H., 
she  has  also  been  led,  by  formal  invitations,  to  deliver 
poems  at  the  opening  of  the  Board-of-Trade  Building, 
of  the  Chapel  of  the  Second  Congregational  Society, 
and  of  the  Fowler  Literary  Building.  In  Boston  she  is 
a  member  of  several  literary  and  benevolent  associa- 
tions, and  is  especially  active  in  The  Castilian  Club,  of 
which  organization  she  is  president. 

Her  time  is  largely  given  to  connected  courses  of 
lectures  before  literary  societies  on  English  Litera- 
ture in  connegtion  with  English,  and  with  foreign  his- 


ABBA  GOOLD  WOOLSON.  313 

tory;  on  the  Historical   Plays   of    Shakespeare,    and 
matters  of  Spanish  History,  Scenery,  and  Life. 

In  1883-1884,  she  made  a  tour  of  thirteen  months 
abroad,  spending  a  summer  in  Ireland,  Wales,  Scotland 
and  England ;  and  visiting,  in  addition  to  the  countries 
usually  seen  by  tourists,  Austria,  Hungary,  Southern 
Italy,  Spain,  and  Morocco.  In  previous  years  she  had 
made  a  journey  to  the  Pacific  Coast,  visiting  the  big 
trees,  and  the  Yosemite  Valley. 


AN  EVENING'S  ADVENTURE 

AT 

THE   DEAC6N    HOUSE. 

IF  you  were  one  of  the  thousand  curious  visitors  who 
were  permitted  to  examine  the  wonders  of  the  Deacon 
House,  previous  to  the  public  sale  of  its  furniture  and 
contents  a  week  ago,  you  must  have  noticed  a  picture 
that  hung  there  in  the  library,  above  an  old,  richly 
carved  cabinet,  and  which  was  set  down  in  the  cata- 
logue as  a  Delilah  by  Rubens.  It  represented  the  up- 
turned face  of  a  woman,  so  strikingly  beautiful,  with  its 
Grecian  outline  and  warm,  clear  coloring,  that  the 
most  careless  could  not  easily  forget  it. 

This  picture  greatly  charmed  a  wealthy  lady,  who 
had  been  admitted  to  a  private  view  of  the  house  before 
it  was  thrown  open  to  the  great  crowd  of  ticket  holders; 
but  as  she  had  then  no  reason  to  doubt  that  the  paint- 
ing was  a  veritable  Rubens,  and  likely  to  command  an 
immense  price  at  the  auction,  she  indulged  no  hope  of 
obtaining  it  for  herself.  She  resolved,  however,  upon 
procuring  a  copy,  if  the  thing  were  possible ;  and  as 
she  was  a  personal  friend  of  some  of  the  heirs  of  the 
property,  she  had  no  difficulty  in  obtaining  permission 
for  any  artist  whom  she  might  select  to  visit  the  house 
at  all  hours,  previous  to  the  first  day  of  the  sale. 

The  artist  chosen  was  none  other  than  my  intimate 
friend  Jeannette,  who  had  spent  considerable  time  at 
copying  in  the  Louvre  and  other  galleries  while  pursu- 
ing her  Art  education  abroad,  and  whose  skill  in  such 
painting  had  begun  to  attract  attention  from  connois- 
seurs. She  liked  the  task  that  was  given  her,  and  set 
immediately  about  it ;  but  owing  to  the  constant  throngs 
of  sight-seers  that  filled  the  rooms  day  after  day,  she 
was  restricted  to  a  few  hours  of  the  early  morning  and 
one  of  the  late  afternoon  for  her  work.  She  became 
ambitious  to  produce  an  exact  and  finished  copy  ;  and 
315 


3 1 6  AN  E VENINVS  ADVENTURE. 

the  last  afternoon  before  the  sale  found  her  with  some 
hours'  labor  yet  to  be  added  to  the  picture  before  she 
could  regard  it  as  complete. 

On  the  morning  of  that  day  she  came  to  me  to  ask  if 
I  would  be  willing  to  remain  with  her  at  the  house 
from  four  o'clock,  when  the  crowd  would  be  gone, 
until  such  time  in  the  early  evening  as  her  work  would 
permit  her  to  leave,  saying  that  her  brother,  who  was 
to  keep  her  company  there,  had  but  just  now  been 
obliged  to  leave  town  unexpectedly,  and  she  must  rely 
upon  me.  I  readily  consented,  glad  of  so  pleasant  an 
opportunity  to  study  at  my  leisure  the  many  rare  ob- 
jects of  interest  that  I  had  seen  there  on  a  hurried  visit 
the  previous  day. 

Her  plans,  as  she  informed  me,  were  already  made. 
The  doorkeeper  in  charge,  who  was  directed  to  afford 
her  every  assistance  in  his  power,  had  allowed  her  to 
make  what  arrangement  she  chose  ;  and  to  avoid  the 
trouble  and  responsibility  of  keeping  and  delivering  up 
the  keys  of  the  hall  door  and  the  great  gate,  we  were  to 
find  egress  through  the  rear  entrance  of  the  house, 
where  a  door  opened  upon  a  court,  and  was  fastened 
only  by  a  spring  lock.  There,  as  she  had  arranged,  a 
carriage  was  to  come  for  us  at  an  appointed  hour,  and 
wait  until  we  should  appear  with  the  finished  painting. 
As  the  daylight  would  soon  leave  that  eastern  room, 
where  she  must  work,  a  goodly  supply  of  candles  was 
to  furnish  light  when  needed  ;  and  these  could  be  set 
in  the  chandelier,  made  for  such  means  of  illumination, 
and  which  hung,  fortunately,  so  as  to  throw  a  strong, 
full  light  upon  the  picture.  This  friend  Jeannette  is  an 
energetic  little  body,  and  forgets  nothing  ;  for  in  all  the 
journeys  and  labors  into  which  her  art  studies  have  led 
her,  she  has  been  used  to  looking  out  for  herself. 

By  means  of  the  pass  she  had  provided,  I  obtained 
admission  to  the  house  at  the  appointed  hour,  and 
found  my  friend  already  in  the  library,  making  ready 
with  brushes  and  pallette,  and  impatient  for  the  people 
to  be  gone.  She  had  not  long  to  wait.  The  stately 
policemen,  who  had  stood  on  guard  all  day  in  the 
different  rooms,  soon  cleared  them  of  their  occupants 
and  departed  themselves  ;  the  auctioneer's  clerks,  who 
had  been  verifying  their  lists  for  the  next  day's  sale, 
went  their  ways,  and  finally,  the  trusty  doorkeeper, 


BY  ABBA  GOOLD  WOOLSON.  317 

after  seeing  that  all  windows  were  secure,  came  to  an- 
nounce that  he  was  ready  to  go,  and  that  he  should 
now  deliver  the  house  into  our  care,  charging  us  to  see 
that  the  door  opening  upon  the  court  was  firmly  closed 
whenever  we  should  leave.  We  went  down  to  it  to 
make  sure  that  it  was  all  right ;  and  when  we  saw  the 
keeper  depart,  locking  the  hall  door  behind  him  and 
swinging  the  gates  together  and  fastening  them  with  a 
great  noise,  we  rejoiced  that  we  had  at  length  the  house 
to  ourselves. 

We  thought  best,  however,  to  make  a  hurried  tour  of 
the  rooms,  to  see  that  nobody  had  been  left  behind, 
and  that  everything  was  as  it  should  be,  before  we 
settled  down  to  the  evening's  work.  So  passing  up  the 
broad  oaken  staircase,  past  the  white  marble  vase  on 
the  landing,  and  the  great  square  of  Gobelin  tapestry 
stretched  upon  the  high  wall,  to  the  gallery  above,  we 
traversed  the  empty  chamber*,  peering  hastily  as  we 
went,  behind  the  damask  curtains  that  shrouded  the 
beds,  and  into  all  corners  and  closets,  after  the  manner 
of  women  when  out  upon  such  exploring  expeditions. 
Then  descending,  we  glanced  through  the  open  doors 
into  the  grand  cordon  of  gorgeous  apartments  that 
constituted  the  ground  floor,  thronged  a  few  moments 
ago  with  bustling  crowds,  but  now  as  orderly,  as  silent 
and  deserted  as  if  nothing  had  occurred  during  the  past 
week  to  disturb  the  hush  and  gloom  that  had  reigned 
there  for  twenty  long  years. 

Once  more  in  the  library,  I  busied  myself  with  loop- 
ing back  the  heavy  velvet  curtains  from  the  windows, 
that  no  ray  of  light  might  be  lost ;  while  my  companion 
seated  herself  at  her  easel,  before  the  glorious  Delilah, 
and  was  soon  absorbed  in  the  work.  The  face  and 
shoulders  of  her  copy  were  already  finished,  and  won- 
derfully like,  but  the  drapery  was  still  only  an  outline. 
Not  to  disturb  her,  I  proceeded  quietly  to  examine  the 
contents  of  our  room.  It  was  not  an  attractive  apart- 
ment. You  remember  the  dull,  dark  paper,  the  dingy 
green  velvet  draperies,  the  demoralized  steel  chandelier. 
The  great  picture  of  the  ascending  archangel,  beside 
the  carved  fire-frame,  was  not  cheerful  to  contemplate, 
neither  was  a  large  and  very  unpleasant  looking  soup 
plate,  fastened  to  the  wall,  said  to  be  of  majolica,  and 
attributed,  from  some  old  spite  perhaps,  to  Caffagido. 


3 1 8  AN  E  VENINGS  AD  VENTURE. 

Several  ancient  breastplates  and  shields,  girt  about 
with  divers  diabolical  weapons,  appeared  above  the 
book-cases,  beyond  my  reach.  To  inspect  the  mineral 
case  was  to  stand  in  Jeannette's  precious  light ;  and 
some  magnificent  wood  carving,  which  I  remembered 
as  adorning  the  panels  of  a  cabinet,  and  a  number  of 
curious  old  miniatures,  were  all  placed  directly  under 
the  Rubens  picture,  and  therefore  too  near  the  artist  to 
admit  of  close  examination. 

I  resolved  to  extend  my  observations  to  the  other 
rooms,  particularly  as  I  wished  to  study  the  Sevres 
china,  about  which  I  had  been  informing  myself  since 
my  first  visit.  After  setting  up  the  candles  in  the  shaky 
chandelier,  preparatory  to  a  grand  illumination  when 
their  light  should  be  needed,  I  informed  my  friend  that 
I  was  just  starting  out  on  a  tour  of  observation  and  dis- 
covery through  the  lower  rooms. 

"  Perhaps,  "  I  added,  *'  I  may  come  across  a  comfort- 
able looking  sofa  on  the  way,  and  conclude  to  take 
a  little  nap  on  my  own  account ;  so  don't  mind  if  I  fail 
to  put  in  an  appearance  for  the  next  hour.  I  shall 
be  on  hand  whenever  you  want  me.  Just  whistle  and 
I'll  come  unto  you,  my  love  ;  "  and  laughing  I  departed, 
closing  the  door  behind  me,  but  going  back  to  tell  Jean- 
nette  to  be  sure  to  draw  the  thick  curtains  well  together, 
and  to  shut  both  doors  tightly,  if  she  should  touch 
off  the  candles  before  my  return,  otherwise  the  unusual 
light  in  the  deserted  mansion  might  alarm  the  outer 
world.  Promising  on  my  part  not  to  go  beyond  call, 
and  on  no  account  to  stray  off  into  the  chambers  above, 
I  left  her  painting  in  the  folds  of  Delilah's  mantle 
as  if  minutes  were  never  so  precious. 

I  found  myself  then  in  the  salon,  which  was  curtained 
with  yellow  damask.  Although  the  sun  must  have 
already  set,  the  great  parlors  before  me,  stretched  one 
beyond  another  in  a  gorgeous  vista,  were  bright  with 
numberless  reflections  from  mirrors  and  candelabras, 
gilded  panels,  sheeny  satins  and  lustrous  chandeliers. 
These  rooms,  which  in  the  garish  daylight,  when 
filled  with  a  jostling  crowd,  had  seemed  to  me  furnished 
with  nothing  but  splendid  trumpery,  appeared  now,  in 
their  gathering  shadows  and  soft  gleamy  lights,  truly 
palatial  and  superb.  Their  loneliness  and  silence 
were  painfully  impressive.  No  sound  of  the  distant 


BY  ABBA  GOOLD  WOOLSON.  319 

street  penetrated  their  seclusion,  from  beyond  the  high, 
surrounding  wall  ;  no  steps  echoed  near  me  as  I  moved, 
for  the  thick  carpels  muffled  every  sound  ;  no  ticking 
of  a  clock  was  heard,  for  every  one  standing  on  the 
glittering  mantles  had  kept  its  hands  fixed  in  the  same 
spot  for  many  a  long  year. 

I  halted  a  moment  before  the  great  Fragonard  paint- 
ings set  in  the  wall,  to  admire  again  those  robustious 
young  cherubs  tumbling  about  in  mid-air,  irrespective 
of  all  laws  of  gravity,  and  then  stepped,  not  without  a 
certain  reverence,  into  the  little  boudoir  where  were 
gathered  together  the  furniture  and  ornaments  that  had 
once  belonged  to  a  beautiful  and  ill-fated  queen.  In 
such  a  place  and  at  such  an  hour  I  could  not  help 
indulging  in  a  bit  of  revcry.  In  these  very  chairs 
Marie  Antoinette  had  sat,  on  these  silken  curtains  of 
embroidered  damask  her  hand  had  perhaps  rested,  as 
she  drew  them  back  to  gaze  from  her  palace  window, 
and  on  this  scarlet  satin  lounge  she  may  have  lain  for 
a  noontide  siesta,  after  her  charming  peasant-play  at 
Little  Trianon.  This  exquisite  jewel  box  may  have 
held  the  veritable  diamond  necklace  over  which  she 
had  cause  to  shed  so  many  tears.  Her  husband's 
sister,  the  Princess  Elizabeth,  looked  down  from  a 
medallion  on  the  wall,  and  the  Princess  Lamballe 
seemed  smiling  straight  into  my  eyes  from  under  her 
rakish  little  hat.  Certainly  all  three  had  bent  some 
day  over  this  centre-table  to  admire  its  inlaid  Sevres, 
and,  no  doubt,  they  studied  with  interest  the  portraits 
of  themselves  fixed  in  the  backs  of  these  tiny  chairs. 
I  gazed  with  delight  at  a  painting  of  frolicsome  cherubs 
balancing  on  a  tree-bole,  over  the  door,  and  nearly  dis- 
located my  neck  to  inspect  several  others  of  the  same 
race  waltzing  on  the  ceiling  around  the  rod  of  a  chan- 
delier, whose  graceful  basket  of  golden  lilies  depended 
between  a  cloud  of  pinioned  butterflies.  What  a  pity, 
thought  I,  that  all  the  dainty  furnishings  of  this  pretty 
boudoir,  after  having  been  kept  together  for  so  many 
years,  in  fact  ever  since  they  were  owned  by  the 
daughter  of  Maria  Theresa,  eighty  odd  years  ago,  must 
be  scattered  to-morrow  to  the  four  winds,  under  the 
hammer  of  an  auctioneer  ! 

I  stepped  out  at  length  into  the  Montmorenci  salon, 
all  aglitter  with  green  and  gold,  and  hurried  across  to 


3 2O  AN  E  VENIN&S  AD  VEN TURE. 

the  dining-room,  to  inspect  the  famous  dishes  there, 
before  it  was  too  dark  to  behold  them  well.  The  great 
paintings  that  covered  the  walls  were  fast  sinking  into 
gloom.  Making  my  way  to  the  case  of  marvellous 
china,  presented  to  the  French  Queen  as  the  gift  of  a 
city,  I  removed  the  glass  frame  that  protected  it,  and 
lifted  each  cup  from  its  niche  in  the  satin  case,  that  I 
might  examine  the  exquisite  paintings.  Then  I  sur- 
veyed the  Sevres  plates,  with  the  portrait  of  a  court 
beauty  in  the  centre,  the  finger  bowls  and  wine  glasses 
of  pale  Bohemian  in  the  curious  sideboard,  and  all  the 
odd  little  tea  sets  and  ungainly  dishes  ranged  around 
in  the  cases.  These  plates  and  cups  of  fragile  china 
had  outlived  the  emperors  and  queens  who  had  eaten 
and  drank  from  them  at  forgotten  banquets,  and  even 
a  generation  or  two  of  American  republicans  after  their 
time. 

It  was  now  so  dark  that  I  must  abandon  further  ex- 
plorations and  put  all  things  in  order  again.  But  I 
found  it  impossible  to  replace  the  heavy  glass  frame 
over  the  Sevres  service,  so  I  left  it  on  the  floor  till 
Jeannette  could  come  to  help  me.  Other  and  more 
mysterious  hands,  however,  were  destined  to  restore  it 
to  its  proper  place. 

No  sound  had  come  from  the  library  since  I  left  it. 
Jeannette  must  be  getting  along  famously  ;  I  thought 
it  were  best  not  to  disturb  her.  Coming  back  into  the 
Montmorenci  parlor,  and  remarking  again  what  an  eye 
that  family  had  for  splendor  and  gilding,  I  concluded 
to  while  away  the  time  by  taking  a  nap.  Bringing 
two  pieces  of  rich  costuming  from  a  number  lying  upon 
the  billiard  table  in  the  next  room,  that  they  might 
serve  as  a  protection  from  the  growing  chilliness  of  the 
air,  I  made  myself  comfortable  upon  one  of  the  green 
satin  sofas  that  stood  in  a  corner  opposite  the  door  of 
the  little  boudoir.  Truly,  I  muttered  to  myself, 
this  is  not  bad  ;  ensconced  in  the  salon  of  the  Mont- 
morencis,  in  sight  of  a  queen's  boudoir,  wilh  one  of 
King  Louis's  waistcoats  and  the  mantle  of  a  Spanish 
grandee  for  wrappings,  I  may  content  myself  for  awhile. 
Musing  upon  the  days  when  these  rooms  were  crowded 
with  guests,  the  lights  all  ablaze,  the  windows  open 
into  a  bower  of  blossoming  plants,  gentlemen  clinking 


BY  ABBA  GOOLD  WOOLSON.  321 

their  wine  glasses  and  ladies  fluttering  their  fans,  I 
fell,  at  length,  soundly  asleep. 

How  long  I  remained  there,  I  do  not  know,  but 
when  at  length  I  awoke  it  seemed  to  be  from  a  deep 
sleep,  and  everything  about  me  appeared  shrouded  in 
the  gloom  of  night.  It  was  not  too  dark,  however,  for 
me  to  see  across  the  room  where  I  lay,  and  dimly  to 
discern  the  other  apartments  beyond.  A  wind  had 
arisen  since  I  slept,  for  there  came  to  my  ear  a 
sound  from  without,  like  the  swaying  of  tree  boughs ; 
and  now  and  then  a  fitful  light  stole  into  the  window, 
flashing  for  an  instant  across  the  gilded  panels,  and 
gleaming  from  the  hundred  crystal  pendants  of  a  great 
chandelier.  Then  all  grew  dark  as  before.  I  knew 
that  the  moon  was  up  and  struggling  through  a  driving 
rack  of  clouds,  though  from  where  I  lay  I  could  see 
neither  moon  nor  sky.  The  profound  hush  about  me 
was  only  intensified  by  the  sound  of  the  wind  and 
the  steady  dripping  of  the  snow  upon  the  conserva- 
tory roof. 

I  comprehended  at  once  that  I  had  overslept  my- 
self, and  that  my  friend  must,  by  this  time  have 
finished  her  work  and  be  r$ady  to  depart.  But  not  a  ray 
of  light  nor  a  sound  came  through  that  distant  library 
door.  I  was  rising  to  make  my  way  towards  it,  when  a 
continuous  noise  arrested  my  attention,  as  regular  as  the 
snow  dropping,  but  much  finer  and  nearer.  I  listened  ; 
it  certainly  was  the  ticking  of  a  clock  in  this  very 
room.  A  streak  of  moonlight  that  fell  just  then  upon 
the  wall  showed  me  that  the  gilded  hands  of  the 
mantel  clock  were  actually  moving.  This  was  so 
strange  that  I  closed  my  eyes  quickly  and  opened 
them  wide,  to  convince  myself  that  I  was  awake. 

Soon  the  room  was  in  shadow  again,  deeper  than  be- 
fore, and  the  dial  no  longer  visible,  but  the  ticking 
continued.  Rising  on  my  elbow,  I  was  proceeding  to 
gather  up  the  mantle  that  had  fallen  to  the  carpet, 
when  I  became  conscious  that  in  the  boudoir  opposite, 
behind  the  narrow  curtained  doorway,  a  faint  light  was 
shining,  a  light  steadier  than  the  moonlight  and  not  so 
pale.  No  lamp  was  to  be  seen  there ;  but  keeping 
silent  and  motionless — for  by  this  time  I  was  lost  in 
wonder  at  what  all  this  could  mean — I  was  sure  I  heard 
a  soft  rustling,  and  then  a  noise  like  the  opening  of  a 


322  AN  E  VENINGS  AD  VENTURE. 

box-lid  or  of  a  cabinet  door.  Of  course,  I  reflected, 
it  can  only  be  Jeannette,  who  has  come  in  there  with 
a  candle,  and  is  standing  intent  about  something  be- 
side the  door.  I  called  her  name.  Instead  of  a  re- 
ply there  was  an  instant  hush.  I  strained  my  ears,  but 
could  hear  only  the  tick,  tick  of  the  clock  and  the  fancied 
echoes  of  my  own  voice  dying  away  in  the  farthest 
rooms.  For  some  moments  this  breathless  hush  con- 
tinued. Now  if  my  friend  be  playing  me  a  trick  I  may 
as  well  discover  it  at  once,  thought  I,  making  bold  to 
advance  towards  the  boudoir  and  see  for  myself  who 
this  unseen  occupant  might  be.  But  scarcely  had  I 
risen,  when  the  same  sharp  click  struck  upon  my  ear, 
as  though  a  small  door  had  been  shut,  and  then  the 
rustling  began  again.  I  held  my  breath  in  a  wonder- 
ing fear.  Through  the  arch  of  the  little  curtained 
doorway,  I  could  see  the  mantle-mirror  that  hung 
opposite,  and  into  its  depths  there  moved  the  reflection 
of  something  like  an  antique  lamp,  burning  at  the  tip, 
and  held  high  by  a  white  hand.  A  portion  of  the 
sleeve  was  visible  at  the  wrist.  This  was  no  Jean- 
nette— who  else  could  be  there  ?  I  sank  back  upon 
the  sofa,  incapable  of  any  motion  or  thought  save  this, 
that  some  other  being  besides*ourselves  was  shut  up  in 
this  dark,  deserted  mansion. 

Then,  from  a  hidden  corner  near  the  doorway, 
there  glided  out  in  the  centre  of  the  boudoir  the  figure 
of  a  woman,  tall  and  dressed  in  ancient  fashion,  with  a 
rich,  flowered  brocade  sweeping  the  floor  and  rustling 
as  she  went.  Her  face  was  not  visible,  for  she  was 
moving  away  from  me  towards  the  mantle,  and  the 
tiny  lamp  glimmering  above  her  head  seemed  to  throw 
her  figure  beneath  into  shadow  while  it  cast  a  faint 
light  around.  She  paused,  as  if  surveying  the  two 
portraits  on  the  wall  before  her,  and  then,  while  I  was 
trembling  lest  some  involuntary  movement  of  mine 
should  attract  her  attention,  she  passed  suddenly  out 
of  sight  through  a  door  communicating  with  another 
salon  beyond.  I  watched  intently  for  her  reappearance 
but  she  remained  there  a  long  while,  without  my  being 
able  to  detect  the  slightest  sound  or  flicker  of  light  in 
the  adjoining  rooms. 

The  entrance  hall,  containing  the  great  staircase, 
occupied  a  remote  corner  of  the  house ;  and  beneath  it 


BY  ABBA  GOOLD  WOOLSON.  323 

and  the  parlor  into  which  this  being  or  vision  had  de- 
parted, stretched  the  billiard  room,  which  had  been 
dim  even  at  twilight,  with  its  closed  blinds,  and  now 
that  no  ray  of  the  moon  penetrated  into  the  other  ap- 
partments,  it  was  wrapped  in  darkness.  While  I  was 
staring  into  its  depths,  and  debating  if  I  had  not  better 
attempt  to  pick  my  way  through  it  and  escape  to  the 
library,  the  figure  crossed  my  sight  again,  moving  along 
the  farthest  side  of  the  billiard  room  in  the  direction 
of  the  hall.  Her  face,  as  I  beheld  it  dimly  in  profile, 
for  the  lamp  was  well-nigh  extinguished,  shone  pale 
and  sad,  and  she  looked  straight  before  her  as  she 
walked.  But  just  as  she  was  passing  from  view,  she 
turned  her  eyes  full  upon  me,  and  raised  her  hand  with 
a  commanding  gesture  toward  the  door.  In  an  instant 
she  had  vanished  and  I  heard  the  rustling  dying  away 
upon  the  staircase.  When  it  had  wholly  ceased,  I 
flew  to  the  room  where,  hours  ago,  I  had  left  my 
friend. 

And  there  I  found  the  busy  little  maid,  in  the  soft 
b'aze  of  a  dozen  candles,  wiping  her  brushes  and 
pointing  triumphantly  to  her  finished  painting.  She 
started  at  seeing  the  expression  on  my  face  but  soon 
burst  into  merry  laughter,  and  before  I  could  find 
breath  to  explain  myself,  dragged  me  before  a  mirror 
to  behold  the  strange  rig  in  which  I  was  arrayed.  An 
old  fashioned  waistcoat,  bespangled  with  silken  pan- 
sies,  into  which  I  had  thrust  my  arms  before  taking 
the  nap,  and  which  I  had  since  forgotten,  was  buttoned 
well  up  to  the  chin,  and  a  high  collar,  stiff  with  em- 
broidery, was  standing  about  my  ears  and  threatening 
to  engulf  the  chignon  behind.  Above  this  appeared 
a  pallid  face  and  eyes  set  wide.  I  had  to  smile,  in 
spite  of  the  untold  wonder  I  had  seen  ;  and  indeed,  the 
brightly  lighted  room,  the  sight  of  Jeannette,  and  the 
sound  of  her  merry  voice  were  wonderfully  reassuring 
after  my  lonesome  experience. 

I  first  asked  her  if  it  was  not  nearly  midnight,  and 
she  assured  me  that  it  was  by  no  means  so  late  as 
that,  adding  that  it  was  plain  to  her  I  had  been 
masquerading  with  ghosts  out  there,  and  had  lost  my 
wits.  With  some  effort  I  related  all  I  had  seen.  She 
only  laughed  the  more,  asserting  that  I  had  been  half 


324  AN  E  VENINGS  AD  VENTURE. 

asleep,  and  that  this  strange  being,  whoever  she  might 
be,  was  only  a  creature  of  my  imagining. 

"  Were  you  not  conjuring  up  all  kinds  of  fancies 
before  you  fell  asleep  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Perhaps  so,"  I  rejoined,  "but  this  was  no  dream, 
I  am  sure." 

But  I  have  been  awake  all  the  while  and  have 
heard  nothing.  I  remember  that  my  door  opened 
suddenly  in  the  early  evening,  without  apparent  cause, 
and  I  got  up  and  looked  out,  but  discovered  only  your- 
self fast  asleep  on  a  distant  sofa.  I  closed  it  and  re- 
turned to  my  work  ;  but  a  moment  after  it  opened 
wider  than  before.  Then  I  concluded  that  a  window 
was  left  open  somewhere  in  the  house,  and  that  the 
wind  rising  had  blown  the  door  back.  I  shut  it  again 
and  thought  no  more  about  it.  If  your  wandering, 
lady-like  ghost  came  to  look  in  upon  me,  I  did  not  see 
her,  and  this  house  is  not  one  of  the  kind  to  be  haunted, 
for  it  has  scarcely  ever  been  inhabited  by  living  people. 
But  come,"  she  added,  "  the  carriage  must  have  been 
waiting  for  us  a  long  while  ;  put  this  out  of  yonr  mind 
and  let  us  make  ready  to  go." 

I  recollected  the  glass  frame  belonging  over  the 
Sevres  china,  that  I  had  left  on  the  dining-room  floor, 
and  knew  it  must  be  replaced. 

Looking  out,  we  saw  that  the  rooms  were  now  bright 
with  moonlight,  and  together  we  started  upon  this 
errand.  As  we  went  by  the  clock  in  the  Montmorenci 
salon,  its  hands  were  still  in  motion.  On  reaching  the 
dining-room  the  frame  which  we  had  come  to  lift  ap- 
peared set  in  its  proper  place.  I  looked  at  my  friend 
and  saw  that  she  was  beginning  to  share  my  amaze- 
ment, but  we  said  nothing.  Passing  the  hall  door  on 
our  return,  I  could  not  refrain  from  glancing  up  to  the 
Gobelin  tapestry  that  hung  over  the  staircase,  for  it 
was  lighted  by  the  full  moon  that  shone  in  through  an 
unseen  window  on  the  gallery  above.  The  central 
figure  of  Victory  looked  out  regal  and  smiling  ;  but,  as 
we  paused  a  moment  to  behold  it,  a  shadow  like  that 
of  a  woman  fell  upon  it,  wavering  and  floating  across 
from  one  side  to  the  other,  and  then  vanishing. 
Neither  spoke  a  word  as  we  returned  to  the  library, 
but  to  take  up  the  painting-case  and  canvas,  extin- 


BY  ABBA  COOLD  WOOLSON.  32$ 

guish  and  remove  the  candles,  loop  back  the  curtains 
and  depart  to  the  flight  of  stairs  leading  down  from  the 
hall  to  the  rear  entrance,  was  the  work  of  a  few 
seconds. 

Through  the  side  lights  we  saw  the  carriage  wait- 
ing ;  and  there  was  our  faithful  Jehu,  with  his  blanketed 
horses  drawn  up  to  the  door,  and  himself  sitting  motion- 
less upon  his  box  and  half  asleep  in  the  shadow  of  the 
great  house.  Soon  the  outer  door  was  closed  tightly 
behind  us,  and  we  were  whirling  around  the  square, 
into  the  lighted  street.  I  glanced  back  at  the  mansion 
we  had  left,  but  the  moon,  freed  from  her  clouds,  was 
flooding  its  front  with  a  peaceful  light,  and,  if  any  un- 
earthly visitants  were  roaming  then  through  the  de- 
serted upper  chambers,  no  signs  of  disturbance  ap- 
peared at  its  casements.  The  breeze  had  died  away, 
and  within  the  garden  wall  the  black  shadows  of  leaf- 
less trees  stretched  motionless  across  the  untrodden 
snow.  We  spoke  on  the  way  home  of  what  we  had 
seen,  and  agreed  to  say  nothing  about  it  to  others,  until 
we  had  taken  time  to  think  it  over  and  account  for  it 
to  ourselves,  if  that  might  be  possible.  This  is  the 
first  time  I  have  related  it  to  any  one,  but,  though  a 
week  has  passed,  it  appears  to  me  as  strange,  as  inex- 
plicable as  ever. 

Such  is  the  story  that  was  told  me  last  night,  as  I 
sat  with  a  friend  by  the  light  of  her  evening  fire,  listen- 
ing to  the  "keening"  of  the  wind  without.  I  give  it, 
with  all  its  minuteness,  in  her  very  words.  Do  I  vouch 
myself  for  its  truth  ?  Not  at  all.  I  do  not  believe 
in  ghosts  nor  haunted  houses — the  more's  the  pity — 
but,  when  looking  into  her  eyes  and  witnessing  the 
e:notion  with  which  she  recalled  that  evening's  adven- 
ture, I  could  not  doubt  the  reality  of  what  she  told. 
When  she  had  closed,  we  sat  a  moment  in  thought.  I 
asked  her,  at  length,  if  the  figure  she  had  seen  could 
not  have  been  one  of  the  old  servants  who  had  returned 
to  the  house  to  vecover  some  forgotten  article,  and  had 
entered  by  a  door  unknown  to  her.  She  replied  that 
it  was  no  servant,  she  was  certain  of  that. 

"  And  you  and  your  companion  could  not  have  im- 
agined what  you  saw  ?" 

"  Impossible." 


326  AN  E  VENINGS  AD  VENTURE. 

"  Then,  surely,  you  believe  in  ghosts  ?  " 

"  No,  I  cannot  admit  that  I  do." 

"  But  you  are  aware  that  one  or  other  of  these  sup- 
positions must  be  true  ?  " 

"Well,  it  may  be;  but  you  shall  choose  for  your- 
self." 


ADAM  FLOYD. 


BY 


MARY  J.  HOLMES. 


MARY  J.  HOLMES. 

THE  four  American  novelists  who  have  made  the 
largest  sums  from  their  writings  are  Mrs.  Stowe,  Mrs. 
Holmes,  Mrs.  Augusta  Evans  Wilson,  and  Mrs.  Emma 
D.  E.  N.  Southworth.  Mrs.  Holmes  has  been  a  pro- 
lific and  a  popular  author,  and  her  success  has  been 
uninterruptedly  great. 

She  was  Miss  Hawes,  a  niece  of  the  Rev.  Dr.  Joel 
Hawes,  a  literary  man,  and  forty  years  ago  a  popular 
writer. 

Shortly  after  her  marriage  to  Mr.  Daniel  Holmes,  a 
young  lawyer,  she  wrote  her  first  novel,  "  Tempest  and 
Sunshine,"  and  subsequently  a  story  called  "  English 
Orphans."  In  1863  appeared  her  famous  novel, 
"  Lena  Rivers,"  which  had  a  great  sale.  This  was  fol- 
lowed in  quick  succession  by  twenty  more  works  of 
fiction,  all  of  which  have  sold  largely.  Mrs.  Holmes 
enjoys  an  income  ranging  from  ten  to  fifteen  thousand 
dollars  a  year. 

From  her  schooldays  she  believed  herself  born  to  be 
a  writer  of  romance,  but  had  at  first  little  encourage- 
ment from  those  about  her.  To  her  schoolmates  she 
always  said  she  should  write  a  book  just  as  soon  as 
she  grew  up,  and  when  they  would  laugh  at  her  and 
jeer  her  she  would  repeat  her  declaration  with  renewed 
earnestness.  She  has  spent  her  life  since  that  time 
writing  novels  which  not  only  her  schoolmates  but  a 
great  public  have  read. 

Mrs.  Holmes  resides  in  an  attractive  home  at  Brock- 
port,  N.  Y.  Her  family  consists  of  her  husband  and 
herself  only,  but  her  social  circle  is  a  large  one  and 
her  popularity  is  such  that  were  she  not  a  writer  she 
would  be  a  society  leader.  She  is  a  member  of  the 
Protestant  Episcopal  Church  and  is  an  active  worker, 
having  charge  of  the  infant  class  of  the  Sunday 
School,  and  doing  much  mission  and  charity  duty. 
333 


334  MARY J.  HOLMES. 

As  she  is  the  wealthiest  woman  of  her  town  her  name 
is  found  among  the  foremost  donors  to  all  public  insti- 
tutions and  local  chariues. 

Mrs.  Holmes  delights  in  travel  and  has  spent  a 
great  deal  of  time  in  Europe.  "  Brown  Cottage,"  the 
name  of  her  home,  is  closed  whenever  one  of  her  rest- 
less moods  comes  upon  her  and  she  and  her  husband 
go  away  and  roam  until  both  are  weary  and  desire  to 
be  at  home  again. 

The  publishers  of  her  novels  attribute  their  great 
success  to  her  natural  and  graceful  style,  and  to  the 
purity  and  high  moral  tone  of  her  writings.  She  does 
not  pander  to  the  demand  for  sensationalism,  and  has 
no  hobbies.  Her  books  are  wholesome  ones  to  read, 
and  the  public  is  evidently  pleased  to  read  them. 
Mrs.  Holmes  is  a  very  earnest  and  gifted  woman, 
conscientiousness  being  a  very  marked  attribute  of  her 
character. 


ADAM  FLOYD. 


IT  was  the  warmest  day  of  the  season,  and  from  the 
moment  when  the  first  robin  chirped  in  the  maple  tree 
growing  by  the  door,  to  the  time  when  the  shadows 
stretching  eastward  indicated  that  the  sultry  afternoon 
was  drawing  to  a  close,  Adam  Floyd  had  been  busy. 
Indeed,  he  could  not  remember  a  day  when  he  had 
worked  so  continuously  and  so  hard,  neither  could  he 
recall  a  time  when  he  had  been  so  perfectly  happy, 
except  upon  one«starlight  night  when  last  winter's  snow 
was  piled  upon  the  ground.  The  events  of  that  night 
had  seemed  to  him  then  like  a  dream,  and  they  were 
scarcely  more  real  now,  when  pausing  occasionally  in 
his  work  and  leaning  his  head  upon  his  broad,  brown 
hands,  he  tried  to  recall  just  the  awkward  words  he 
had  spoken  and  the  graceful  answer  she  had  given ; 
answer  so  low  that  he  would  hardly  have  known  she 
was  speaking,  had  not  his  face  been  so  near  to  hers 
that  he  could  hear  the  murmured  response. 

"  I  am  not  half  good  enough  for  you,  Adam,  and 
shall  make  a  sorry  wife  ;  but,  if  you  will  take  me  with 
all  my  faults,  I  am  yours." 

That  is  what  she  had  said,  the  only  she  in  all  the 
world  to  Adam  Floyd,  now  that  the  churchyard  grass 
was  growing  over  the  poor  old  blind  mother,  to  whom 
he  had  been  the  tenderest,  best  of  sons,  and  who  had 
said  to  him  when  dying, 

"  I'm  glad  I'm  going  home,  my  boy,  for  now  you  can 
bring  Anna  here.  She  is  a  bonny  creature,  I  know  by 
the  sound  of  her  voice  and  the  touch  of  her  silky  hair. 
Tell  her  how  with  my  last  breath  I  blessed  her,  and 
how  glad  I  was  to  think  that  when  she  came,  the  old 
blind  woman's  chair  would  be  empty,  and  that  she 
would  be  spared  a  heavy  burden  which  she  is  far  too 
young  to  bear.  God  deal  by  her  as  she  deals  by  you, 
my  noble  boy." 

335 


336  ADAM  FLOYD. 

The  March  winds  were  blowing  when  they  made  his 
mother's  grave,  and  Adam's  heart  was  not  as  sore  now 
as  on  that  dismal,  rainy  night,  when  he  first  sat  alone 
in  his  little  cottage  and  missed  the  groping  hand  feel- 
ing for  his  own.  Anna  was  coining  within  a  week, 
Anna  who  had  said,  "  I  am  not  half  good  enough  for 
you."  How  the  remembrance  of  these  words  even 
now  brought  a  smile  to  the  lips  where  the  sweat  drops 
were  standing  as  he  toiled  for  her,  putting  the  last  fin- 
ishing strokes  to  the  home  prepared  for  his  future 
bride,  Anna  Burroughs,  the  Deacon's  only  daughter, 
the  fairest  maiden  in  all  the  goodly  town  of 
Rhodes — Anna,  who  had  been  away  to  school  for  a 
whole  year,  who  could  speak  another  language  than 
her  own,  whose  hands  were  soft  and  white  as  wool, 
whom  all  the  village  lads  coveted,  and  at  whom  it  was 
rumored  even  Herbert  Dunallen,  the  heir  of  Castlewild, 
where  Adam  worked  so  much,  had  cast  admiring 
glances.  Not  good  enough  for  him  ?  She  was  far  too 
good  for  a  great  burly  fellow  like  himself,  a  poor  me- 
chanic, who  had  never  looked  into  the  Algebras  and 
Euclids  piled  on  Anna's  table  the  morning  after  she 
came  from  school.  This  was  what  Adam  thought, 
wondering  why  she  had  chosen  him,  and  if  she  were 
not  sorry.  Sometimes  of  late  he  had  fancied  a  cold- 
ness in  her  manner,  a  shrinking  from  his  caresses ;  but 
the  very  idea  had  made  his  great,  kind  heart  throb 
with  a  pang  so  keen  that  he  had  striven  to  banish  it, 
for  to  lose  his  darling  now  would  be  worse  than  death. 
He  had  thought  it  all  over  that  August  day,  when  he 
nailed  down  the  bright  new  carpet  in  what  was  to  be 
her  room.  "  Our  room,"  he  said  softly  to  himself,  as 
he  watched  his  coadjutor,  old  Aunt  Martha  Eastman, 
smoothing  and  arranging  the  snowy  pillows  upon  the 
nicely  made  up  bed,  and  looping  with  bows  of  pure 
white  satin  the  muslin  curtains  which  shaded  the  pretty 
bay  window.  That  window  was  his  own  handiwork. 
He  had  planned  and  built  it  himself,  for  Anna  was 
partial  to  bay  windows.  He  had  heard  her  say  so 
once  when  she  came  up  to  Castlewild  where  he  was 
making  some  repairs,  and  so  he  had  made  her  two,  one 
in  the  bedroom,  and  one  in  the  pleasant  parlor  looking 
out  upon  the  little  garden  full  of  flowers.  Adam's 
taste  was  perfect,  and  many  a  passer  by  stopped  to 


BY  MARY J.  HOLMES.  337 

admire  the  bird's  nest  cottage,  peeping  out  from  its 
thick  covering  of  ivy  leaves  and  flowering  vines. 
Adam  was  pleased  with  it  himself,  and  when  the  last 
tack  had  been  driven  and  the  last  chair  set  in  its  place, 
he  went  over  it  alone  admiring  as  he  went,  and  won- 
dering how  it  would  strike  Anna.  Would  her  soft  blue 
eyes  light  up  with  joy,  or  would  they  wear  the  troubled 
look  he  had  sometimes  observed  in  them  ?  "  If  they 
do,"  and  Adam's  breath  came  hard  as  he  said  it,  and 
his  hands  were  locked  tightly  together,  "if  they  do,  I'll 
lead  her  into  mother's  room ;  she  won't  deceive  me 
there.  I'll  tell  her  that  I  would  not  take  a  wife  who 
does  not  love  me ;  that  though  to  give  her  up  is  like 
tearing  out  my  heart,  I'll  do  it  if  she  says  so,  and 
Anna  will  answer — " 

Adam  did  not  know  what,  and  the  very  possibility 
that  she  might  answer,  as  he  sometimes  feared,  paled 
his  bronzed  cheek,  and  made  him  reel,  as,  walking  to  his 
blind  mother's  chair,  he  knelt  beside  it,  and  prayed 
earnestly  for  grace  to  bear  the  happiness  or  sorrow 
there  might  be  in  store  for  him.  In  early  youth,  Adam 
had  learned  the  source  of  all  true  peace,  and  now  in 
every  .perplexity,  however  trivial,  he  turned  to  God, 
who  was  pledged  to  care  for  the  child,  trusting  so  im- 
plicitly in  him. 

"  If  it  is  right  for  Anna  to  be  mine,  give  her  to  me, 
but,  if  she  has  sickened  of  me,  oh  Father,  help  me  to 
bear." 

This  was  Adam's  prayer,  and  when  it  was  uttered, 
the  pain  and  dread  were  gone,  and  the  child-like  man 
saw  no  cloud  lowering  on  his  horizon. 

It  was  nearly  time  for  him  to  be  going  now,  if  he 
would  have  Anna  see  the  cottage  by  daylight,  and 
hastening  to  the  chamber  he  had  occupied  since  he  was 
a  boy,  he  put  on,  not  his  wedding  suit,  for  that  was 
safely  locked  in  his  trunk,  but  his  Sunday  clothes,  feel- 
ing a  pardonable  thrill  of  satisfaction  when  he  saw  how 
much  he  was  improved  by  dress.  Not  that  Adam 
Floyd  was  ever  ill-looking.  A  stranger  would  have 
singled  him  out  from  a  thousand.  Tall,  straight  and 
firmly  built,  with  the  flush  of  perfect  health  upon  his 
frank,  open  face,  and  the  sparkle  of  intelligence  in  his 
dark  brown  eyes,  he  represented  a  rare  type  of  manly 
beauty.  He  was  looking  uncommonly  well,  too,  this 


338  ADAM  FLOYD. 

afternoon,  old  Martha  thought,  as  from  the  kitchen 
door  she  watched  him  passing  down  the  walk  and  out 
into  the  road  which  led  to  the  red  farm-house,  where 
Deacon  Burroughs  lived,  and  where  Anna  was  waiting 
for  him. 

Waiting  for  him,  we  said,  but  not  exactly  as  Adam 
Floyd  should  have  been  waited  for.  Never  had  a 
day  seemed  so  long  to  her  as  that  which  to  Adam  had 
passed  so  quickly.  Restless  and  wretched  she  had 
wandered  many  times  from  the  garden  to  the  brook, 
from  the  brook  back  to  the  garden,  and  thence  to  her 
own  little  chamber,  from  whose  window,  looking  south- 
ward could  be  seen  the  chimney  of  the  cottage,  peep- 
ing through  the  trees.  At  this  she  looked  ofien  and 
long,  trying  to  silence  the  faithful  monitor  within, 
whispering  to  her  of  the  terrrible  desolation  which 
would  soon  fall  upon  the  master  of  that  cottage,  if  she 
persisted  in  her  cruel  plan.  Then  she  glanced  to  the 
northward,  where,  from  the  hill  top,  rose  the  preten- 
tious walls  of  Castlewild,  whose  young  heir  had  come 
between  her  and  her  affianced  husband ;  then  she  com- 
pared them,  one  with  the  other — Aclam  Floyd  with 
Herbert  Dunallen — one  the  rich  proprietor  of  Castle- 
wild,  the  boyish  man  just  of  age,  who  touched  his  hat 
so  gracefully,  as  in  the  summer  twilight  he  rode  in  his 
handsome  carriage  past  her  father's  door,  the  youth, 
whose  manners  were  so  elegant,  and  whose  hands  were 
so  white  ;  the  other,  a  mechanic,  a  carpenter  by  trade, 
who  worked  sometimes  at  Castlewild — a  man  unversed 
in  etiquette  as  taught  in  fashion's  school,  and  who 
could  neither  dress,  nor  dance,  nor  flatter,  nor  bow  as 
could  Dunallen,  but  who  she  knew  was  tenfold  more 
worthy  of  her  esteem.  Alas,  for  Anna  ;  though  our 
heroine,  she  was  but  a  foolish  thing,  who  suffered 
fancy  to  rule  her  better  judgment,  and  let  her  heart 
turn  more  willingly  to  the  picture  of  Dunallen  than 
to  that  of  honest  Adam  Floyd,  hastening  on  to  join 
her. 

"If  he  were  not  so  good,"  she  thought,  as  with  a 
shudder  she  turned  away  from  the  pretty  little  work- 
box  he  had  brought  her  ;  "  if  he  had  ever  given  me  an 
unkind  word,  or  suspected  how  treacherous  I  am,  it 
would  not  seem  so  bad,  but  he  trusts  me  so  much ! 


BY  MARY J.  HOLMES.  339 

Oh,  Adam,  I  wish  we  had  never  met !  "  and  hiding  her 
face  in  her  hands,  poor  Anna  weeps  passionately. 

There  was  a  hand  upon  the  gate,  and  Anna  knew 
whose  step  it  was  coming  so  cheerfully  up  the  walk, 
and  wondered  if  it  would  be  as  light  and  buoyant 
when  she  was  gone.  She  heard  him  in  their  little 
parlor,  talking  to  her  mother,  and,  as  she  listened,  the 
tones  of  his  voice  fell  soothingly  upon  her  ear,  for 
there  was  music  in  the  voice  of  Adam  Floyd,  and 
more  than  Anna  had  felt  its  quieting  influence.  It 
seemed  cruel  to  deceive  him  so  dreadfully,  and  in  her 
sorrow  Anna  sobbed  out, 

"  Oh,  what  must  I  do  ? "  Once  she  thought  to  pray, 
but  she  could  not  do  that  now.  She  had  not  prayed 
aright  since  that  first  June  night  when  she  met  young 
Herbert  down  in  the  beech  grove,  and  heard  him 
speak  jestingly  of  her  lover,  saying  "  she  was  far  too 
pretty  and  refined  for  such  an  odd  old  cove."  It  had 
struck  her  then  that  this  cognomen  was  not  exactly 
refined,  that  Adam  Floyd  would  never  have  called 
Dunallen  thus,  but  Herbert's  arm  was  round  her  waist, 
where  only  Adam's  had  a  right  to  rest.  Herbert's 
eyes  were  bent  fondly  upon  her,  and  so  she  forgave 
the  insult  to  her  affianced  husband,  and  tried  to  laugh 
at  the  joke.  That  was  the  first  open  act,  but  since 
then  she  had  strayed  very  far  from  the  path  of  duty, 
until  now  she  had  half  promised  to  forsake  Adam 
Floyd  and  be  Dunallen's  bride.  That  very  day,  just 
after  sunset,  he  would  be  waiting  in  the  beech  wood 
grove  for  her  final  decision.  No  wonder  that  with  this 
upon  her  mind  she  shrank  from  meeting  her  lover, 
whom  she  knew  to  be  the  soul  of  truth  and  honor. 
And  yet  she  must  school  herself  to  go  with  him  over 
the  house  he  had  prepared  for  her  with  so  much  pride 
and  care.  Once  there  she  would  tell  him,  she  thought, 
how  the  love  she  once  bore  him  had  died  out  from  her 
heart.  She  would  not  speak  of  Herbert  Dunallen  but 
she  would  ask  to  be  released,  and  he,  the  generous, 
unselfish  man,  would  do  her  bidding. 

Anna  had  faith  in  Adam's  goodness,  and  this  it  was 
which  nerved  her  at  the  last  to  wash  the  tear-stains 
from  her  face  and  rearrange  the  golden  curls  falling 
about  her  forehead.  "  He'll  know  I've  been  crying," 
she  said,  "  but  that  will  pave  the  way  to  what  I  have  to 


34O  ADAM  FLOYD. 

tell  him  ; "  and  with  one  hasty  glance  at  the  fair  young 
face  which  Adam  thought  so  beautiful,  she  ran  lightly 
down  the  stairs,  glad  that  her  mother  was  present 
when  she  first  greeted  Adam.  But  the  mother,  remem- 
bering her  own  girlish  days,  soon  left  the  room,  and 
the  lovers  were  alone. 

"  What  is  it,  darling  ?  Are  you  sick  ?  "  and  Adam's 
broad  palm  rested  caressingly  upon  the  bowed  head  of 
Anna,  who  could  not  meet  his  earnest  glance  for 
shame. 

She  said  something  about  being  nervous  and  tired 
because  of  the  excessive  heat,  and  then,  steadying  her 
voice,  she  continued  : 

"  You  have  come  for  me  to  see  the  cottage,  I  sup- 
pose. We  will  go  at  once,  as  1  must  I'eturn  before  it's 
dark." 

Her  manner  troubled  him,  but  he  made  no  comment 
until  they  were  out  upon  the  highway,  when  he  said  to 
her  timidly,  "  If  you  are  tired,  perhaps  you  would  not 
mind  taking  my  arm.  Folks  will  not  talk  about  it, 
now  we  are  so  near  being  one." 

Anna  could  not  take  his  arm,  so  she  replied  : 
"Somebody  might  gossip;  I'd  better  walk  alone," 
and  coquettishly  swinging  the  hat  she  carried  instead 
of  wore,  she  walked  by  his  side  silently,  save  when 
he  addressed  her  directly.  Poor  Adam  !  there  were 
clouds  gathering  around  his  heart,  blacker  far  than 
the  dark  rift  rising  so  rapidly  in  the  western  sky. 
There  was  something  the  matter  with  Anna  more 
than  weariness  or  heat,  but  he  would  not  question  her 
there,  and  so  a  dead  silence  fell  between  them  until 
the  cottage  was  reached,  and  standing  with  her  on  the 
threshold  of  the  door,  he  said,  mournfully,  but  oh  !  so 
tenderly,  "Does  my  little  Blossom  like  the  home  I 
have  prepared  for  her,  and  is  she  willing  to  live  here 
with  me  ?  " 

She  seemed  to  him  so  fair,  so  pure,  so  like  the 
apple  blossoms  of  early  June,  that  he  often  called  her 
his  little  Blossom,  but  now  there  was  a  touching  pathos 
in  the  tones  of  his  voice  as  he  repeated  the  pet  name, 
and  it  wrung  from  Anna  a  gush  of  tears.  Lifting  her 
blue  eyes  to  his  for  an  instant,  she  laid  her  head  upon 
his  arm  and  cried  piteously  : 


BY  MARY  /.  HOLMES.  341 

"  Oh,  Adam,  you  are  so  good,  so  much  better  than  I 
deserve.  Yes,  I  like  it,  so  much." 

Was  it  a  sense  of  his  goodness  which  made  her  cry, 
or  was  it  something  else  ?  Adam  wished  he  knew,  but 
he  would  rather  she  should  tell  him  of  her  own  accord, 
and  winding  his  arm  around  her,  he  lifted  up  her  head 
and  wiping  her  tears  away,  kissed  her  gently,  saying, 
"  Does  Blossom  like  to  have  me  kiss  her  ? " 

She  did  not,  but  she  could  not  tell  him  so  when 
he  bent  so  fondly  over  her,  his  face  all  aglow  with  the 
mighty  love  he  bore  her.  Affecting  not  to  hear  his 
question  she  broke  away  from  his  embrace  and  seat- 
ing herself  in  the  bay  window,  began  talking  of  its  pretty 
effect  from  the  road,  and  the  great  improvement  it  was 
to  the  cottage.  Still  she  did  not  deceive  Adam  Floyd, 
who  all  the  while  her  playful  remarks  were  sounding 
in  his  ears  was  nerving  himself  to  a  task  he  meant  to 
perform.  But  not  in  any  of  the  rooms  he  had  fitted 
up  for  her  could  he  say  that  if  she  would  have  it  so  she 
was  free  from  him,  even  though  the  bridal  was  only  a 
week  in  advance  and  the  bridal  guests  were  bidden. 
Only  in  one  room,  his  dead  mother's,  could  he  tell  her 
this.  That  had  been  to  him  a  Bethel  since  his  blind 
mother  left  it.  Its  walls  had  witnessed  most  of  his 
secret  sorrows  and  joys,  and  there,  if  it  must  be,  he 
would  break  his  heart  by  giving  Anna  up. 

"  I  did  not  change  mother's  room,"  he  said,  leading 
Anna  to  the  arm-chair  where  none  had  sat  since  an 
aged,  withered  form,  last  rested  there.  "  I'd  rather 
see  it  as  it  used  to  be  when  she  was  here,  and  I  thought 
you  would  not  mind." 

"  It  is  better  to  leave  it  so,"  Anna  said,  while  Adam 
continued, 

"  I'm  glad  you  like  our  home.  I  think  myself  it  is 
pleasant,  and  so  does  every  one.  Even  Dunallen  com- 
plimented it  very  highly." 

"  Dunallen  ;  has  he  been  here  ?  "  and  Anna  blushed 
painfully. 

But  Adam  was  not  looking  at  her.  He  had  never 
associated  the  heir  of  Castlewild  with  Anna's  changed 
demeanor,  and  wholly  unconscious  of  the  pain  he  was 
inflicting,  he  went.  on. 

"  He  went  all  over  the  house  this  morning,  except 
indeed  in  here.  I  could  not  admit  him  to  the  room 


342  ADAM  FLOYD. 

where  mother  died.  Did  I  tell  you  that  he  had  hired 
me  for  a  long  and  profitable  job  ?  He  is  going  to 
make  some  repairs  at  Castlewild  before  he  brings  home 
his  bride.  You  know  he  is  engaged  to  a  young  heiress, 
Mildred  Atherton." 

It  was  well  for  Anna  that  her  face  was  turned  from 
Adam  as  she  replied, 

"  Yes,  I've  heard  something  of  an  engagement  made 
by  the  family  when  he  was  a  mere  boy.  I  thought 
perhaps  he  had  tired  of  it." 

"  Oh,  no ;  he  told  me  only  to-day  that  he  expected 
to  bring  his  wife  to  Castlewild  as  early  as  Christmas. 
We  were  speaking  of  you  and  our  marriage." 

"  Of  me  ? "  and  Anna  looked  up  quickly,  but  poor, 
deluded  Adam,  mistook  her  guilty  flush  for  a  kind  of 
grateful  pride  that  Dunallen  should  talk  of  her. 

"  He  said  you  were  the  prettiest  girl  he  ever  saw, 
and  when  I  suggested,  "except  Miss  Atherton,"  he 
added,  *  I  will  not  except  any  one  ;  Milly  is  pretty,  but 
not  like  your  fiancte?  " 

Anna  had  not  fallen  so  low  that  she  could  not  see 
how  mean  and  dastardly  it  was  for  Herbert  Dunallen 
to  talk  thus  of  her  to  the  very  man  he  was  intending  to 
wrong  so  cruelly  ;  and  for  a  moment  a  life  with  Adam 
Floyd  looked  more  desirable  than  a  life  with  Herbert 
Dunallen,  even  though  it  were  spent  in  the  midst  of 
elegance  of  which  she  had  never  dreamed.  Anna's 
good  angel  was  fast  gaining  the  ascendency,  and  might 
have  triumphed  had  not  the  sound  of  horses'  feet  just 
then  met  her  ear,  and  looking  from  the  window  she 
saw  Herbert  Dunallen  riding  by,  his  dark  curls  floating 
in  the  wind  and  his  cheek  flushing  with  exercise.  He 
saw  her,  too,  and  quickly  touching  his  cap,-  pointed 
adroitly  towards  the  beechwood  grove.  With  his  dis- 
appearance over  the  hill  her  good  angel  flew  away, 
and  on  her  face  there  settled  the  same  cold,  unhappy 
look,  which  had  troubled  Adam  so  much. 

"  Darling,"  he  said,  when  he  spoke  again,  "  there  is 
something  on  your  mind  which  I  do  not  understand. 
If  you  are  to  be  my  wife,  there  should  be  no  secrets 
between  us.  Will  you  tell  me  what  it  is,  and  if  I  can 
help  you  I  will,  even  though — though — " 

His  voice  began  to  falter,  for  the  white,  hard  look  on 
Anna's  face  frightened  him,  and  at  last  in  an  agony  of 


BY  MARY J.  HOLMES.  343 

terror,  he  grasped  both  her  hands  in  his  and  added 
impetuously  : 

"  F,ven  though  it  be  to  give  you  up,  you  whom  I  love 
better  than  my  life — for  whom  I  would  die  so  willingly. 
Oh,  Anna!  "  and  he  sank  on  his  knees  beside  her,  and 
winding  his  arms  around  her  waist,  looked  her  implor- 
ingly in  the  face.  "  I  sometimes  fear  that  you  have- 
sickened  of  me — that  you  shrink  from  my  caresses, 
if  it  is  so,  in  mercy  tell  me  now,  before  it  is  too  late  ; 
for,  Anna,  dear  as  you  are  to  me,  I  would  rather 
to-morrow's  sunshine  should  fall  upon  your  grave  and 
mine,  than  take  you  to  my  bosom  an  unloving  wife  ! 
I  have  worked  for  you,  early  and  late,  thinking  only 
how  you  might  be  pleased.  There  is  not  a  niche  or 
corner  in  my  home  that  is  not  hallowed  by  thoughts  of 
you  whom  I  have  loved  since  you  were  a  little  child 
and  I  carried  you  in  the  arms  which  now  would  be 
your  resting  place  forever.  I  know  I  am  not  your 
equal,  I  feel  it  painfully,  but  I  can  learn  with  you  as 
my  teacher,  and,  my  precious  Anna,  whatever  I  may 
lack  in  polish,  I  will,  1  ?#/'// make  up  in  kindness  !  " 

He  was  pleading  now  for  her  love,  forgetting  that 
she  was  his  promised  wife — forgetting  everything,  save 
that  to  his  words  of  passionate  appeal  there  came  no 
answering  response  in  the  expression  of  her  face. 
Only  the  same  fixed,  stony  look,  which  almost  mad- 
dened him  ;  it  was  so  unlike  what  he  deserved  and  had 
reason  to  expect. 

"  I  shall  be  lonely  without  you,  Anna — more  lonely 
than  you  can  guess,  for  there  is  no  mother  here  now  to 
bless  and  cheer  me  as  she  would  have  cheered  me  in 
my  great  sorrow.  She  loved  you,  Anna,  and  blessed 
you  with  her  dying  breath,  saying  she  was  glad  for 
your  sake,  that  the  chair  where  you  sit  would  be  empty 
when  you  came,  and  asking  God  to  deal  by  you  even 
as  you  dealt  by  me." 

"Oh,  Adam,  Adam!"  Anna  gasped,  for  what  had 
been  meant  for  a  blessing  rang  in  her  ears  like  that 
blind  woman's  curse.  "  May  God  deal  better  by  me 
than  I  meant  to  deal  by  you  !  "  she  tried  to  say,  but 
the  words  died  on  her  lips,  and  she  could  only  lay  her 
cold  hands  on  the  shoulder  of  him  who  still  knelt 
before  her,  with  his  arms  around  her  waist. 

Softly,  gladly  came  the  good  angel  back,  and  'mid  a 


344  ADAM  FLOYD. 

rain  of  tears  which  dropped  on  Adam's  hair,  Anna 
wept  her  hardness  all  away,  while  the  only  sound  heard 
in  the  room  was  the  beating  of  two  hearts  and  the 
occasional  roll  of  thunder  muttering  in  the  distance. 
In  reality  it  was  only  a  few  moments,  but  to  Anna 
it  seemed  a  long,  long  time  that  they  sat  thus 
together,  her  face  bent  down  upon  his  head,  while  she 
thought  of  all  the  past  since  she  could  remember 
Adam  Floyd  and  the  blind  old  woman,  his  mother. 
He  had  been  a  dutiful  son,  Anna  knew,  for  she  had 
heard  how  tenderly  he  would  bear  his  mother  in  his 
strong  arms  or  guide  her  uncertain  steps,  and  how  at 
the  last  he  sat  by  her  night  after  night,  never  weary- 
ing of  the  tiresome  vigil  until  it  was  ended,  and  the 
sightless  eyes,  which  in  death  turned  lovingly  to  him, 
were  opened  to  the  light  of  Heaven.  To  such  as  Adam 
Floyd  the  commandment  of  promise  was  rife  with 
meaning.  God  would  prolong  his  days  and  punish 
those  who  wronged  him.  He  who  had  been  so  faithful 
to  his  mother,  would  be  true  to  his  wife — aye,  truer  far 
than  young  Dunallen,  with  all  his  polish  and  wealth. 

"  Adam,"  Anna  began  at  last,  so  low  that  he 
scarcely  could  hear  her.  "  Adam,  forgive  me  all  that  is 
past.  I  have  been  cold  and  indifferent,  have  treated 
you  as  I  ought  not,  but  I  am  young  and  foolish,  I — I 
— oh  !  Adam,  I  mean  to  do  better.  I — " 

She  could  not  say,  "  will  banish  Dunallen  from  my 
mind  " — it  was  not  necessary  to  mention  him,  she 
thought ;  but  some  explanation  must  be  made,  and  so, 
steadying  her  voice,  she  told  him  how  dearly  she  had 
loved  him  once,  thinking  there  was  not  in  all  the  world 
his  equal,  but  that  during  the  year  at  a  city  school  she 
had  acquired  some  foolish  notions  and  had  sometimes 
wished  her  lover  different. 

"  Not  better  at  heart.  You  could  not  be  that,"  she 
said,  looking  him  now  fully  in  the  face,  for  she  was 
conscious  of  meaning  what  she  said,  "  but — but — " 

"  You  need  not  finish  it,  darling ;  I  know  what  you 
mean,"  Adam  said,  the  cloud  lifting  in  a  measure  from 
his  brow.  "I  am  not  refined  one  bit,  but  my  Blossom 
is,  and  she  shall  teach  me,  I  will  try  hard  to  learn. 
I  will  not  often  make  her  ashamed.  I  will  even  imi- 
tate Dunallen,  if  that  will  gratify  my  darling." 

Why  would  he  keep  bringing  in  that  name,  when  the 


BY  MARY  J.  HOLMES.  345 

sound  of  it  was  so  like  a  dagger  to  Anna's  heart,  and 
when  she  wished  she  might  never  hear  it  again  ?  He 
was  waiting  for  her  now  in  the  beech  woods  she  knew, 
for  she  was  to  join  him  there  ere  long,  not  to  say 
what  she  would  have  said  an  hour  ago,  but  to  say  that 
she  could  not,  would  not  wrong  the  noble  man  who 
held  her  to  his  bosom  so  lovingly  as  he  promised  to 
copy  Dunallen.  And  as  Anna  suffered  him  to  caress 
her,  she  felt  her  olden  love  coming  back.  She  should 
be  happy  with  him — happier  far  than  if  she  were  the 
mistress  of  Castlewild,  and  knew  that  to  attain  that 
honor  she  had  broken  Adam's  heart. 

"  As  a  proof  that  you  trust  me  fully,"  she  said,  as 
the  twilight  shadows  deepened  around  them,  "you 
must  let  me  go  home  alone,  I  wish  it  for  a  special 
reason.  You  must  not  tell  me  no,"  and  the  pretty  lips 
touched  his  bearded  cheek. 

Adam  wanted  to  walk  with  her  down  the  pleasant 
road,  where  they  had  walked  so  often,  but  he  saw  she 
was  in  earnest,  and  so  he  suffered  her  to  depart  alone, 
watching  her  until  the  flutter  of  her  light  dress  was 
lost  to  view.  Then  kneeling  by  the  chair  where  she 
had  sat  so  recently,  he  asked  that  the  cup  of  joy,  placed 
again  in  his  eager  hand,  might  not  be  wrested  from 
him,  that  he  might  prove  worthy  of  Anna's  love,  and 
that  no  cloud  should  ever  again  come  between  them. 

Herbert  Dunallen  had  waited  there  a  long  time,  as 
he  thought,  and  he  began  to  grow  impatient.  What 
business  had  Anna  to  stay  with  that  old  fellow,  if  she 
did  not  mean  to  have  him,  and  of  course  she  did  not. 
It  would  be  a  mosf  preposterous  piece  of  business  for 
a  girl  like  Anna  to  throw  herself  away  upon  such  as 
Adam  Floyd,  carpenter  by  trade,  and  general  repairer 
of  things  at  Castlewild.  Whew-ew !  and  Herbert 
whistled  contemptuously,  adding  in  a  low  voice,  "and 
yet  my  lady  mother  would  raise  a  beautiful  rumpus  if 
she  knew  I  was  about  to  make  this  little  village  rustic 
her  daughter-in-law.  For  I  am ;  if  there's  one  redeem- 
ing trait  in  my  character,  it's  being  honorable  in  my 
intentions  toward  Anna.  Most  men  in  my  position 
would  only  trifle  with  her,  particularly  when  there  was 
in  the  background  a  Mildred  Atherton,  dreadfully  in 
love  with  them.  I  wonder  what  makes  all  the  girls 
admire  me  so  ? "  and  the  vain  young  man  stroked  his 


346  ADAM  FLOYD. 

mustache  complacently,  just  as  a  rapid  footstep  sounded 
near. 

It  was  Anna's,  and  the  next  moment  he  held  her  in 
his  arms.  But  she  would  not  suffer  him  to  keep  her 
there,  and  with  a  quiet  dignity  which  for  an  instant 
startled  him  beyond  the  power  to  speak  or  act,  she  put 
his  arm  away,  and  standing  apart  from  him,  told  him 
of  her  resolution,  and  reproached  him  with  his  duplicity, 
asking  him  how  he  could  tell  Adam  that  he  was  about 
to  be  married. 

"  Because  I  am,"  he  replied.  "  I  am  not  to  blame 
for  his  believing  silly  little  Milly  to  be  the  bride  elect. 
Won't  it  be  famous,  though,  for  you  to  order  round 
your  former  lover?  I've  engaged  him  for  a  long  job, 
and  you  ought  to  have  seen  how  glad  he  was  of  the 
work,  thinking,  of  course,  how  much  he  should  earn 
for  you.  I  came  near  laughing  in  his  face  when  he 
hoped  I  should  be  as  happy  with  Miss  Mildred  as  he 
expected  to  be  with  you." 

"  You  shan't  speak  so  of  Adam  Floyd!  "  and  Anna's 
little  foot  beat  the  ground  impatiently,  while  indignant 
tears  glittered  in  her  blue  eyes  as  she  again  reiterated 
that  Adam  Floyd  should  be  her  husband. 

"  Not  while  I  live  !  "  Herbert  responded  almost 
fiercely,  for  he  saw  in  her  manner  a  determination  he 
had  never  witnessed  before. 

As  well  as  he  was  capable  of  doing  he  loved  Anna 
Burroughs,  and  the  fact  that  she  was  pledged  to 
another  added  fuel  to  the  flame. 

"  What  new  freak  has  taken  my  fickle  goddess  ?  "  he 
asked,  looking  down  upon  her  with  a  mocking  sneer 
about  his  mouth  as  she  told  him  why  she  could  not  go 
with  him. 

He  knew  she  was  in  earnest  at  last,  and,  dropping 
his  jesting  tone,  he  made  her  sit  down  beside  him, 
while  he  used  every  possible  argument  to  dissuade  her 
from  her  purpose,  working  first  upon  her  pride,  flatter- 
ing her  vanity,  portraying  the  happiness  of  a  tour 
through  Europe,  a  winter  in  Paris,  and  lastly  touching 
upon  the  advantages  of  being  lady  supreme  at 
Castlewild,  with  a  house  in  the  city,  for  winter.  And 
as  changeable,  ambitious  Anna  listened,  she  felt  her 
resolutipn  giving  way,  felt  the  ground  whjc^  §he  had 


B Y  MARYJ.  HOLMES.  347 

taken  slipping  from  beneath  her  feet  without  one  effort 
to  save  herself. 

"  It  seems  terrible  to  wrong  Adam,"  she  said,  and 
by  the  tone  of  her  voice,  Herbert  knew  the  victory  was 
two  thirds  won. 

"  Adam  will  do  well  enough,"  he  replied.  "  People 
like  him  never  die  of  broken  hearts !  He's  a  good 
fellow,  but  not  the  one  for  you  ;  besides,  you  know  he's 
what  they  call  pious,  just  like  Milly  ;  and,  I  presume, 
he'll  say  it  was  not  so  wicked  for  you  to  cheat  him  as 
to  perjure  yourself,  as  you  surely  would,  by  promising 
to  love  and  honor  and  all  that  when  you  didn't  feel  a 
bit  of  it!" 

"  What  was  that  you  said  of  Miss  Atherton  ?  "  Anna 
asked  eagerly,  for  she  had  caught  the  word  pious,  and 
it  made  her  heart  throb  with  pain,  for  she  knew  that 
Herbert  Dunallen  could  not  say  as  much  of  her  ! 

Once,  indeed,  it  had  been  otherwise,  but  that  was 
before  she  had  met  him  in  the  woods, — before  she 
ceased  to  pray.  Oh,  that  happy  time  when  she  had 
dared  to  pray  !  How  she  wished  it  would  come  back 
to  her  again ;  but  it  had  drifted  far  away,  and  left  a 
void  as  black  as  the  night  closing  around  her  or  the 
heavy  thunder  clouds  rolling  above  her  head. 

Tightly  her  hands  clenched  each  other  as  Herbert 
answered  jestingly. 

"  She's  one  of  the  religious  ones,  Milly  is  ;  writes  me 
such  good  letters.  I've  one  of  them  in  my  pocket  now. 
she's  coming  to  see  me  ;  is  actually  on  the  way,  so  to- 
morrow night,  or  never,  my  bride  you  must  be." 

"  Miss  Atherton  coining  here  !  What  do  you 
mean  ? "  Anna  asked,  and  Herbert  replied, 

"  I  mean,  Mildred  has  always  been  in  a  fever  to  see 
Castlewild,  and  as  she  is  intimate  with  Mrs.  Judge 
Harcourt's  family,  she  is  coming  there  on  a  visit.  Will 
arrive  to-morrow,  her  note  'said ;  and  will  expect  to  see 
me  immediately  after  her  arrival." 

Herbert's  influence  over  Anna  was  too  great  for  her 
to  attempt  to  stop  him,  so  she  offered  no  remonstrance, 
when  he  continued ! 

"  I  suppose  Milly  will  cry  a  little,  for  I  do  be- 
lieve she  likes  me,  and  always  has  ;  but  I  can't  help  it. 

The  match  was  agreed  ^upon  by  our  families  when 
she  was  tNvelye  and  I  fifteen.  Of  course  I'm  awfully 


348  ADAM  FLOYD. 

sick  of  it,  and  have  been  ever  since  I  knew  you,"  and 
Herbert's  lips  touched  the  white  brow  where  only  half 
an  hour  before  Adam  Floyd's  had  been. 

Thicker,  and  blacker,  grew  the  darkness  around 
them,  while  the  thunder  was  louder  and  nearer,  and 
still  they  sat  together,  Anna  hesitating,  while  Herbert 
urged  upon  her  the  necessity  of  going  with  him  the 
following  night,  if  ever. 

Mildred  in  the  neighborhood  would  be  as  formidable 
an  obstacle  to  him  as  Adam  was  to  Anna,  while  he 
feared  the  result  of  another  interview  between  the 
affianced  pair.  With  all  his  love  for  Anna  he  was  not 
blind  to  the  fact  that  the  last  one  with  whom  she  talked 
had  the  better  chance  of  eventually  winning.  He 
could  not  lose  her  now,  and  he  redoubled  his  powers  of 
persuasion,  until,  forgetting  everything,  save  the  hand- 
some youth  beside  her,  the  wealthy  heir  of  Castlewild, 
Anna  said  to  him, 

"  I  will  meet  you  at  our  gate  when  the  village  clock 
strikes  one  ! "  and  as  she  said  the  words  the  woods 
were  lighted  up  by  a  flash  of  lightning  so  fearfully 
bright  and  blinding  that  with  a  scream  of  terror  she 
hid  her  face  in  her  lap  and  stopped  her  ears  to  shut 
out  the  deafening  roll  of  the  thunder.  The  storm  had 
burst  in  all  its  fury,  and  hurrying  from  the  woods^  Her- 
bert half  carried,  half  led  the  frightened  Anna  across  the 
fields  in  the  direction  of  her  father's  door.  Depositing 
her  at  the  gate,  he  paused  for  an  instant  to  whisper  his 
parting  words  and  then  hastened  rapidly  on. 

On  the  kitchen  hearth  a  cheerful  wood  fire  had  been 
kindled,  and  making  some  faint  excuse  for  having  been 
out  in  the  storm,  Anna  repaired  thither,  and  standing 
before  the  blaze  was  drying  her  dripping  garments, 
when  a  voice  from  the  adjoining  room  made  her  start 
and  tremble,  for  she  knew  that  it  was  Adam's. 

He  seemed  to  be  excited  and  was  asking  for  her. 
An  accident  had  occurred  just  before  his  door. 
Frightened  by  the  lightning  which  Anna  remembered 
so  well,  a  pair  of  spirited  horses  had  upset  a  travelling 
carriage,  in  which  was  a  young  lady  and  her  maid. 
The  latter  had  sustained  no  injury,  but  the  lady's  ankle 
was  sprained,  and  she  was  otherwise  so  lamed  and 
bruised  that  it  was  impossible  for  her  to  proceed  any 

farther  that  night.    So  he  had.  carried  her  into  his  cot- 


BY  MARY  J>  HOLMES.  349 

tage  and  dispatching  the  driver  for  the  physician  had 
come  himself  for  Anna  as  the  suitable  person  to  play 
the  hostess  in  his  home. 

"  Oh,  I  can't  go — mother,  you ! "  Anna  exclaimed, 
shrinking  in  terror  from  again  crossing  the  threshold  of 
the  home  she  was  about  to  make  so  desolate. 

But  Adam  preferred  Anna.  The  lady  was  young,  he 
said,  and  it  seemed  to  him  more  appropriate  that  Anna 
should  attend  her.  Mrs  Burroughs  thought  so  too, 
and,  with  a  sinking  heart,  Anna  prepared  herself  for  a 
second  visit  to  the  cottage.  In  her  excitement  she  for- 
got entirely  to  ask  the  name  of  the  stranger,  and  as 
she  was  not  disposed  to  talk,  nothing  was  said  of  the 
lady  until  the  cottage  was  reached  and  she  was  ushered 
into  the  dining-room,  where  old  Martha  and  a  smart 
looking  servant  were  busy  with  the  bandages  and  hot 
water  preparing  for  the  invalid  who  had  been  carried  to 
the  pleasant  bed-room  opening  from  the  parlor. 

"  How  is  Miss  Atherton  ?  "  Adam  asked  of  Martha, 
while  he  kindly  attempted  to  assist  Anna  in  removing 
the  heavy  shawl  her  mother  had  wrapped  around  her. 

"  Who  ?  What  did  you  call  her  ?  "  Anna  asked,  her 
hands  dropping  helplessly  at  her  side. 

"  Why,  I  thought  I  told  you.  I  surely  did  your 
mother.  I  beg  pardon  for  my  carelessness.  It's  Mil 
dred  Atherton,"  and  Adam's  voice  sank  to  a  whisper. 
"  She  was  on  her  way  to  visit  Mrs.  Harcourt.  I  sup- 
pose it  uould  be  well  to  send  for  Dunallen,  but  I 
thought  it  hardly  proper  for  me  to  suggest  it.  I'll  let 
you  get  at  it  somehow,  and  see  if  she  wants  him.  You 
girls  have  a  way  of  understanding  each  other." 

Knowing  how,  in  similar  circumstances,  he  should 
yearn  for  Anna's  presence,  Adam  had  deemed  it  nat- 
ural that  Mildred's  first  wish  would  be  for  Herbert,  and 
one  reason  for  his  insisting  that  Anna  should  come 
back  with  him  was  the  feeling  that  the  beautiful  girl, 
who  face  had  interested  him  at  once,  would  be  more 
free  to  communicate  her  wishes  to  one  of  her  own  age. 

"  Mildred  Atherton,"  Anna  kept  repeating  to  herself, 
every  vestige  of  color  fading  from  her  cheeks  and  lips, 
a§  she  wondered  how  she  could  meet  her,  or  what  the 
]£c,ult  of  the  meeting  would  be. 

"{'  Sarah,  wl^ere  are  VQU  ?     Has  everybody  left  me.  \  " 


35O  ADAM  FLOYD. 

came  from  the  bed,  where  the  outline  of  a  girlish  form 
was  plainly  discernible  to  Anna,  who  started  at  the 
tones  of  what  seemed  to  her  the  sweetest  voice  she  had 
ever  heard. 

"  Go  to  her,"  Adam  whispered,  and  Anna  mechani- 
cally obeyed. 

Gliding  to  the  bedside,  she  stood  a  moment  gazing 
upon  the  beautiful  face  nestled  among  the  snowy  pil- 
lows. The  eyes  were  closed,  and  the  long,  silken  lashes 
shaded  the  fair,  round  cheek,  not  one  half  so  white  as 
Anna's,  notwithstanding  that  a  spasm  of  pain  occasion- 
ally distorted  the  regular  features,  and  wrung  a  faint 
cry  from  the  pretty  lips.  Masses  of  soft  black  curls 
were  pushed  back  from  the  forehead,  and  one  hand  lay 
outside  the  counterpane,  a  little  soft,  fat  hand,  on  whose 
fourth  finger  shone  the  engagement  ring,  the  seal  of  her 
betrothal  to  the  heir  of  Castlewild  !  Oh,  how  debased 
and  wicked  Anna  felt  standing  by  that  innocent  girl, 
and  how  she  marvelled  that  having  known  Mildred 
Atherton,  Herbert  Dunallen  could  ever  have  turned  to 
her.  Involuntarily  a  sigh  escaped  her  lips,  and  at  the 
sound  the  soft  black  eyes  unclosed,  and  looked  at  her 
wonderingly.  Then  a  smile  broke  over  the  fair  face, 
and  extending  her  hand  to  Anna,  Mildred  said, 

"  Where  am  I  ?  My  head  feels  so  confused.  I  re- 
member the  horses  reared  when  that  flash  of  lightning 
came,  the  carriage  was  overturned,  and  some  young 
man,  who  seemed  a  second  Apollo  in  strength  and 
beauty,  brought  me  in  somewhere  so  gently  and  care- 
fully, that  I  could  have  hugged  him  for  it,  he  was  so 
good.  Are  you  his  sister  ?  " 

"  No,  I  am  Anna  Burroughs.  He  came  for  me," 
Anna  replied,  and  looking  her  full  in  the  face,  Mildred 
continued, 

"  Yes,  I  remember  now,  his  nurse  or  housekeeper 
told  me  he  had  gone  for  the  girl  who  was  to  be  his 
wife;  and  you  are  she.  It's  pleasant  to  be  engaged, 
isn't  it?"  and  Mildred's  hand  gave  Anna's  a  little  con- 
fidential squeeze,  which,  quite  as  much  as  the  words 
she  had  uttered,  showed  how  affectionate  and  confid- 
ing was  her  disposition. 

The  entrance  of  the  physician  put  an  end  to  the  con- 
versation, and  withdrawing  to  a  little  distance  where  in 
the  shadow  she  could  not  be  well  observed  Anna,  stood, 


BY  MARY  J.  HOLMES.  3 5  I 

while  the  doctor  examined  the  swollen  ankle,  and  his 
volatile  patient  explained  to  him  in  detail  how  it  all 
happened,  making  herself  out  quite  a  heroine  for 
courage  and  presence  of  mind,  asking  if  he  knew  Mrs. 
Harcourt,  and  if  next  morning  he  would  not  be  kind 
enough  to  let  her  know  that  Mildred  Atherton  was  at 
the  cottage.  The  doctor  promised  whatever  she  asked, 
and  was  about  to  leave  the  room,  when  Adam  stepped 
forward  and  said, 

"  Is  there  any  one  else  whom  Miss  Atherton  would 
like  to  see — any  friend  in  the  neighborhood  who  ought 
to  be  informed  ?  " 

Eagerly  Anna  waited  for  the  answer,  watching  half 
jealously  the  crimson  flush  stealing  over  Mildred's  face, 
as  she  replied, 

"  Not  to-night ;  it  would  do  no  good  ;  to-morrow  is 
soon  enough.  I  never  like  to  make  unnecessary 
trouble." 

The  head  which  had  been  raised  while  Mildred  spoke 
to  Adam  lay  back  upon  the  pillow,  but  not  until  with  a 
second  thought  the  sweet  voice  had  said  to  him, 

"  I  thank  you,  sir,  you  are  so  kind." 

As  a  creature  of  impulse,  Anna  felt  a  passing  thrill 
of  something  like  pride  in  Adam  as  Mildred  Atherton 
spoke  thus  to  him,  and  when  as  he  passed  her  he  invol- 
untarily laid  his  hand  a  moment  on  her  shoulder  she 
did  not  shake  it  off,  though  her  heart  throbbed  pain- 
fully with  thoughts  of  her  intended  treachery.  They 
were  alone  now,  Mildred  and  Anna,  and  beckoning  the 
latter  to  her  side,  Mildred  said  to  her. 

"  He  meant  Herbert  Dunallen.  How  did  he  know 
that  I  am  to  be  Herbert's  wife  ? " 

There  was  no  tremor  in  her  voice.  She  spoke  of 
Herbert  as  a  matter  of  course,  while  Anna  could  hardly 
find  courage  to  reply. 

"  Mr.  Floyd  works  at  Castlewild  sometimes,  and 
probably  has  heard  Mr.  Dunallen  speak  of  you." 

"  Mr.  Floyd — Adam  Floyd,  is  that  the  young  man's 
name  ?  "  was  Mildred's  next  question,  and  when  Anna 
answered  in  the  affirmative,  she  continued,  "  I  have 
heard  of  him.  Herbert  wrote  how  invaluable  he  was 
and  how  superior  to  most  mechanics — his  prime  min- 
ister in  fact.  I  am  glad  the  accident  happened  here, 
and  Herbert  too  will  be  glad," 


352  ADAM  FLOYD. 

For  a  moment  Mildred  seemed  to  be  thinking,  then 
starting  up,  she  said,  abruptly, 

"And  it  was  Anna — Anna  Burroughs,  yes,  I'm  sure 
that's  the  name.  Would  you  mind  putting  that  lamp 
nearer  to  me,  and  coming  yourself  where  I  can  see 
just  how  you  look  ?" 

Anna  shrank  from  the  gaze  of  those  clear,  truthful 
eyes,  but  something  in  Mildred's  manner  impelled  her 
to  do  as  she  was  requested,  and  moving  the  lamp 
she  came  so  near  that  Mildred  placed  a  hand  on  either 
side  of  her  burning  face  and  gazed  at  it  curiously  ; 
then,  pushing  back  the  golden  hair,  and  twining  one  of 
the  curls  a  moment  about  her  ringer,  she  laid  it  by  her 
own  long,  black  shining  tresses,  saying  sadly,  "  I  wish 
my  curls  were  light  and  fair  like  yours.  It  would  suit 
Herbert  better.  He  fancies  a  blonde  more  than  a 
brunette,  at  least  he  told  me  as  much  that  time  he 
wrote  to  me  of  you." 

"  Of  me  ? "  Anna  asked  anxiously,  the  color  reced- 
ing from  her  cheek  and  lip.  "  Why  did  he  write  of  me, 
and  when  ? " 

The  dark  eyes  were  shut  now  and  Anna  could  see 
the  closed  lids  quiver,  just  as  did  the  sweet  voice  which 
replied,  "  It's 'strange  to  talk  so  openly  to  you  as  if  we 
were  dear  friends,  as  we  will  be  when  I  come  to  Castle- 
wild  to  live.  It  is  my  nature  to  say  right  out  what  I 
think,  and  people  sometimes  calls  me  silly.  Herbert 
does,  but  I  don't  care.  When  I  like  a  person  I  show  it, 
and  I  like  you.  Besides,  there's  something  tells  me 
there  is  a  bond  of  sympathy  between  us  greater  than 
between  ordinary  strangers.  I  guess  it  is  because  we 
are  both  engaged,  both  so  young,  and  both  rather  pretty, 
too.  You  certainly  are,  and  I  know  I  am  not  bad  look- 
ing, if  Aunt  Theo  did  use  to  try  and  make  me  think  I 
was.  Her  story  and  the  mirror's  did  not  agree." 

Anna  looked  up  amazed  at  this  frank  avowal,  which 
few  would  ever  have  made,  even  though  in  their  hearts 
they  were  far  vainer  of  their  beauty  than  was  Mildred 
Atherton  of  hers.  Was  she  really  silly,  or  was  she 
wholly  artless  and  childlike  in  her  manner  of  expres- 
sion ?  Anna  could  not  decide,  and  with  a  growing 
interest  in  the  stranger,  she  listened  while  Mildred 
went  on  :  "  In  one  of  his  letters  last  May  Herbert 
said.  SQ  much  of  Anna  Burroughs,  with  her  eyes  of  blue 


BY  MARY J.  HOLMES.  353 

and  golden  hair,  calling  her  a  '  Lily  of  the  Valley,'  and 
asking,  all  in  play,  you  know,  if  I  should  feel  very  badly 
if  he  should  elope  some  day  with  his  Lily.  It  shocks 
you,  don't  it !  "  she  said,  as  Anna  started  with  a  sudden 
exclamation.  "  But  he  did  not  mean  it.  He  only  tried  to 
tease  me,  and  for  a  time  it  did  nake  in  my  heart  a 
little  round  spot  of  pain  which  burned  like  fire,  for 
though  Herbert  has  some  bad  habits  and  naughty  ways, 
I  love  him  very  dearly.  He  is  always  better  with  me. 
He  says  I  do  him  good,  though  he  calls  me  a  puritan, 
and  that  time  when  the  burning  spot  was  in  my  heart,  I 
used  to  go  away  and  pray,  that  if  Herbert  did  not  like 
me  as  he  ought,  God  would  incline  him  to  do  so.  Once 
I  prayed  for  you,  whom  I  had  never  seen,"  and  the 
little  soft  hand  stole  up  to  Anna's  bowed  head  smooth- 
ing the  golden  locks  caressingly,  ''  You'll  think  me 
foolish,  but  thoughts  of  you  really  troubled  me  then, 
when  I  was  weak  and  nervous,  for  I  was  just  recover- 
ing from  sickness,  and  so  I  prayed  that  the  Lily  of  the 
Valley  might  not  care  for  Herbert,  might  not  come 
between  us.  and  I  know  God  heard  me  just  as  well  as 
if  it  had  been  my  own  father  of  whom  I  asked  a  favor. 
Perhaps  it  is  not  having  any  father  or  mother  which 
makes  me  take  every  little  trouble  to  God.  Do  you  do 
so,  Anna  ?  Do  you  tell  all  your  cares  to  him  ?  " 

Alas  for  conscience-stricken  Anna,  who  had  not 
prayed  for  so  very,  very  long  !  What  could  she  say  ? 
Nothing,  except  to  dash  the  bitter  tears  from  her  eyes 
and  answer,  sobbingly, 

"  I  used  to  do  so  once,  but  now — oh,  Miss  Atherton  ! 
now  I  am  so  hard,  so  wicked,  I  dare  not  pray  !  " 

In  great  perplexity  Mildred  looked  at  her  a  moment, 
and  then  said,  sorrowfully. 

"Just  because  I  was  hard  and  wicked,  I  should  want 
to  pray — to  ask  that  if  I  had  done  anything  bad  I 
might  be  forgiven,  or  if  I  had  intended  to  do  wrong, 
I  might  be  kept  from  doing  it." 

Mildred  little  guessed  how  keen  a  pang  her  words 
"  or  intended  to  do  wrong,"  inflicted  upon  the  repenting 
Anna,  who  involuntarily  stretched  her  hands  toward  the 
young  girl  as  toward  something  which,  if  she  did  but 
grasp  it,  would  save  her  from  herself.  Mildred  took 
the  hands  between  her  own,  and  pressing  them  gently, 
said  : 

23 


354  ADAM  FLOYD. 

"  I  don't  know  why  you  feel  so  badly,  neither  can  I 
understand  how  anything  save  sin  can  make  you  un- 
happy when  that  good  man  is  almost  your  husband. 
You  must  love  him  very  much,  do  you  not  ? " 

"Yes,"  came  faintly  from  Anna's  lips,  and  laying 
her  face  on  the  pillow  beside  Mildred's,  she  murmured, 
inaudibly:  "God  help  me,  and  forgive  that  falsehood, 
I  will  love  him,  if  I  do  not  now." 

Anna  did  not  know  she  prayed,  but  He  who  un- 
derstands our  faintest  desire  knew  it,  and  from  that 
moment  dated  her  return  to  duty.  She  should  not 
wrong  that  gentle,  trusting  girl.  She  could  not  break 
Milly's  heart  with  Adam's  as  break  it  she  surely  should 
if  her  wicked  course  were  persisted  in.  And  then 
there  flashed  upon  her  the  conviction  that  Herbert  had 
deceived  her  in  more  ways  than  one.  He  had  repre- 
sented Mildred  as  tiring  of  the  engagement  as  well  as 
himself — had  said  that  though  her  pride  might  be  a 
little  wounded,  she  would  on  the  whole  be  glad  to  be 
rid  of  him  so  easily,  and  all  the  while  he  knew  that 
what  he  said  was  false.  Would  he  deal  less  deceitfully 
by  her  when  the  novelty  of  calling  her  his  wife  had  worn 
away  ?  Would  he  not  weary  of  her  and  sigh  for  the 
victim  sacrificed  so  cruelly?  Anna's  head  and  heart 
both  seemed  bursting  with  pain,  and  when  Mildred, 
alarmed  at  the  pallor  ot  her  face,  asked  if  she  were  ill, 
there  was  no  falsehood  in  the  reply,  "Yes,  I'm  dizzy 
and  faint — I  cannot  stay  here  longer,"  and  scarcely 
conscious  of  what  she  was  doing,  Anna  quitted  the 
room,  leaning  for  support  against  the  banisters  in  the 
hall  and  almost  falling  against  old  Martha  who  was 
carrying  hot  tea  to  Mildred  Atherton. 

"  Let  me  go  home,  I  am  sick,"  Anna  whispered  to 
Adam,  who,  summoned  by  Martha,  bent  anxiously 
over  her,  asking  what  was  the  matter. 

It  was  too  late  to  go  home,  he  said.  She  must  stay 
there  till  morning ;  and  very  tenderly  he  helped  her  up 
to  the  chamber  she  was  to  occupy,  the  one  next  to  his 
own,  and  from  which,  at  a  late  hour,  she  heard  him,  as, 
thinking  her  asleep,  he  thanked  his  Heavenly  Father 
for  giving  her  to  him,  and  asked  that  he  might  be  more 
worthy  of  her  than  he  was. 

"  No,  Adam,  oh  no — pray  that  I  may  be  more 
worthy  of  you,"  trembled  on  Anna's  lips,  and  then  lest 


BY  MARY  J.  HOLMES.  355 

her  resolution  might  fail,  she  arose  and  striking  a  light, 
tore  a  blank  leaf  from  a  book  lying  on  a  table,  and 
wrote  to  Herbert  Dunallen-that  she  could  never  meet 
him  again,  except  as  a  friend  and  the  future  husband 
of  Mildred  Atherton. 

Folding  it  once  over,  she  wrote  his  name  upon  it, 
then,  faint  with  excitement,  and  shivering  with  cold, 
threw  herself  upon  the  outside  of  the  bed,  and  sobbed 
herself  into  a  heavy  sleep,  more  exhausting  in  its  effects 
than  wakefulness  would  have  been. 

There  was  another  patient  for  the  village  doctor, 
besides  Mildred,  at  the  cottage  next  morning.  Indeed, 
her  case  sank  into  insignificance  when  compared  with 
that  of  the  moaning,  tossing,  delirious  Anna,  who 
shrank  away  from  Adam,  begging  him  not  to  touch 
her,  for  she  was  not  worthy. 

They  had  found  her  just  after  sunrise,  and  sent  for 
her  mother,  whose  first  thought  was  to  take  her  home  ; 
but  Anna  resisted  at  once  ;  she  must  stay  there  she 
said,  and  expiate  her  sin,  in  Adam's  house.  Then, 
looking  into  her  mother's  face,  she  added  with  a 
smile, 

"  You  know  it  was  to  have  been  mine  in  a  week  !" 

Adam  did  not  see  the  smile.  He  only  heard  the 
words,  and  his  heart  beat  quickly  as  he  thought  it 
natural  that  Anna  should  wish  to  stay  in  what  was  to 
be  her  home. 

The  hot  August  sun  came  pouring  into  the  small,  low 
room  she  occupied,  making  it  so  uncomfortable,  that 
Adam  said  she  must  be  moved,  and  taking  her  in  his 
arms  he  carried  her  down  the  stairs,  and  laid  her  upon 
the  bridal  bed,  whose  snowy  drapery  was  scarcely 
whiter  than  was  her  face,  save  where  the  fever  burned 
upon  her  fair  skin.  On  the  carpet  where  it  had  fallen 
he  found  the  crumpled  note.  He  knew  it  was  her 
writing,  and  he  looked  curiously  at  the  name  upon  it, 
while  there  stole  over  him  a  shadowy  suspicion,  as  to 
the  cause  of  Anna's  recent  coldness. 

"  Herbert  Dunallen  !  "  He  read  the  name  with  a 
shudder,  and  then  thrust  the  note  into  his  pocket  until 
the  young  man  came. 

Oh,  how  he  longed  to  read  the  note  and  know  what 
his  affianced  bride  had  written  to  Dunallen  ;  but  not 


356  ADAM  FLOYD. 

for  the  world  would  he  have  opened  it,  and  Anna's 
secret  was  safe,  unless  she  betrayed  it  in  her  delirium, 
as  she  seemed  likely  to  do. 

A  messenger  had  been  dispatched  to  Castlewild, 
informing  its  young  heir  of  Mildred  Atherton's  mishap. 
In  the  room  he  called  his  library,  Herbert  sat,  arrang- 
ing his  papers,  and  writing  some  directions  for  his  head 
man  of  business. 

"  Something  from  Adam  Floyd,"  he  exclaimed,  as 
he  tore  open  the  envelope,  "  Oh,  bother,"  was  all  the 
comment  he  made,  as  he  read  the  hastily  written  lines, 
which  gave  no  hint  of  Anna's  sudden  illness. 

He  was  not  in  the  least  prepared  for  that,  and  the 
sudden  paling  of  his  cheek  when,  on  his  arrival  at  the 
cottage,  he  heard  of  it,  did  not  escape  the  watchful 
Adam,  who  quietly  handed  him  the  note,  explaining 
where  he  had  found  it,  and  then  went  back  to  Anna, 
in  whose  great  blue  eyes  there  was  a  look  of  fear 
whenever  they  met  his — a  look  which  added  to  the 
dull,  heavy  pain  gnawing  at  his  heart.  He  did  not 
see  Herbert  when  he  read  Anna's  note — did  not  hear 
his  muttered  curse  at  woman's  fickleness,  but  he  saw 
the  tiny  fragments  into  which  it  was  torn,  flutter  past 
the  window  where  he  sat  by  Anna's  side.  One,  a 
longer  strip  than  the  others,  fell  upon  the  window  still, 
and  Adam  picked  it  up,  reading  involuntarily  the  words 
"  Your  unhappy  Anna." 

Down  in  the  depths  of  Adam's  heart  there  was  a 
sob,  a  moan  of  anguish  as  his  fears  were  thus  corrob- 
orated, but  his  face  gave  no  token  of  the  fierce  pain 
within.  It  was  just  as  calm  as  ever,  when  it  turned 
again  to  Anna  who  was  talking  in  her  sleep,  first  of 
Herbert  and  then  of  Adam,  begging  him  to  forget 
that  he  ever  knew  the  little  girl  called  Anna  Burroughs, 
or  carried  her  over  the  rifts  of  snow  to  the  school- 
house  under  the  hill.  It  seemed  strange  that  she 
should  grow  sick  so  fast  when  yesterday  she  had  been 
comparatively  well,  but  the  sudden  cold  she  had  taken 
the  previous  night,  added  to  the  strong  excitement 
under  which  she  had  been  laboring,  combined  to 
spend  the  energies  of  a  constitution  never  strong, 
and  the  fever  increased  so  rapidly  that  before  the 
close  of  the  second  day  more  than  one  heart  throbbed 
with  fear  as  to  what  the  end  would  be. 


B Y  MARYJ.  HOLMES,  357 

In  spite  of  her  lame  ankle  Mildred  had  managed  to 
get  into  the  sick-room,  urging  Herbert  to  accompany 
her,  and  feeling  greatly  shocked  at  his  reply  that 
"  camphor  and  medicine  were  not  to  his  taste." 

Herbert  had  not  greeted  his  bride  elect  very  lov- 
ingly, for  to  her  untimely  appearance  he  attributed 
Anna's  illness  and  decision.  He  could  change  the  lat- 
ter he  knew,  only  give  him  the  chance,  but  the  former 
troubled  him  greatly.  Anna  might  die,  and  then — 
Herbert  Dunallen  did  not  know  what  then,  but  bad  as 
he  was  he  would  rather  she  should  not  die  with  all  that 
sin  against  Adam  unconfessed,  and  out  in  the  Beech 
woods  where  the  night  before  he  had  planned  with  her 
their  flight  and  where  after  leaving  Mildred  he  re- 
paired, he  laid  his  boyish  head  upon  the  summer  grass 
and  cried,  partly  as  a  child  would  cry  for  the  bauble 
denied,  partly  as  an  honest  man  might  mourn  for  the 
loved  one  whose  life  he  had  helped  to  shorten. 

Regularly  each  morning  the  black  pony  from  Castle- 
wild  was  tied  at  the  cottage  gate,  while  its  owner  made 
inquiry  for  Anna.  He  had  discernment  enough  to  see 
that  from  the  first  his  visits  were  unwelcome  to  Adam 
Floyd,  who  he  believed  knew  the  contents  of  the  note 
written  him  by  Anna.  But  in  this  last  he  was  mis- 
taken. All  Adam  knew  certainly  was  gathered  from 
Anna's  delirious  ravings,  which  came  at  last  to  be  un- 
derstood by  Mildred,  who  in  spite  of  Mrs.  Judge  Har- 
court's  entreaties  or  those  of  her  tall,  handsome  son, 
George  Harcourt,  just  home  from  Harvard,  persisted 
in  staying  at  the  cottage  and  ministering  to  Anna. 
For  a  time  the  soft  black  eyes  of  sweet  Mildred  Ather- 
ton  were  heavy  with  unshed  tears,  while  the  sorrow  of 
a  wounded,  deceived  heart  was  visible  upon  her  face ; 
but  at  length  her  true  womanly  sense  of  right  rose 
above  it  all,  and  waking  as  if  from  a  dream  she  saw 
how  utterly  unworthy  even  of  her  childish  love  was  the 
boy  man,  whose  society  she  shunned,  until,  irritated  by 
her  manner,  he  one  day  demanded  an  explanation  of 
her  coolness. 

"  You  know,  Herbert,"  and  Milly's  clear,  innocent 
eyes  looked  steadily  into  his.  "You  know  far  better 
than  I,  all  that  has  passed  between  you  and  Anna  Bur- 
roughs. To  me  and  her  lover,  noble  Adam  Floyd,  it 
is  known  only  in  part,  but  you  understand  the  whole, 


358  ADAM  FLOYD. 

and  I  am  glad  of  this  opportunity  to  tell  you  that  you 
are  free  from  an  engagement  which  never  should  have 
been  made,  and  of  which  you  are  weary.  I  did  love 
you  so  much,  Herbert,  even  though  I  knew  that  you 
were  wayward.  I  loved  you,  and  prayed  for  you,  too, 
every  morning  and  every  night.  I  shall  do  that  yet, 
wherever  you  are,  but  henceforth  we  are  friends,  and 
nothing  more.  Seek  forgiveness,  first  of  God,  and 
then  of  Adam  Floyd,  whom  you  thought  to  wrong  by 
wresting  from  him  the  little  ewe-lamb,  which  was  his 
all." 

Herbert  looked  up  quickly.  Wholly  unversed  in 
Scripture,  the  ewe-Iamb  was  Greek  to  him,  but  Mildred 
was  too  much  in  earnest  for  him  to  jest.  She  had 
never  seemed  so  desirable  as  now,  that  he  had  lost  her, 
and  grasping  her  hand  from  which  she  was  taking  the 
engagement  ring,  he  begged  of  her  to  wait,  to  consider, 
before  she  cast  him  off. 

"  I  was  mean  with  Anna,  I  know,  and  I  meant  to 
run  away  with  her,  but  that  is  over  now.  Speak  to 
me,  Milly ;  I  do  not  know  you  in  this  new  charac- 
ter." 

Milly  hardly  knew  herself,  but  with  regard  to  Her- 
bert she  was  firm,  giving  him  no  hope  of  ever  recover- 
ing the  love  he  had  wantonly  thrown  away. 

After  that  interview,  the  black  pony  stayed  quietly  in 
its  stable  at  Castlewild,  while  Herbert  shut  himself  up 
in  his  room,  sometimes  crying  when  he  thought  of 
Anna,  sometimes  swearing  when  he  thought  of  Mil- 
dred, and  ending  every  reverie  with  his  pet  words,  "  oh 
botheration." 

Each  morning,  however,  a  servant  was  sent  to  the 
cottage  where,  for  weeks,  Anna  hovered  between  life 
and  death,  carefully  tended  by  her  mother  and  Mildred 
Atherton,  and,  tenderly  watched  by  Adam,  who  de- 
ported himself  toward  her  as  a  fond  parent  would  toward 
its  erring  but  suffering  child.  There  was  no  bitterness 
in  Adam's  heart,  nothing  save  love  and  pity  for  the 
white-faced  girl  whom  he  held  firmly  in  his  arms,  sooth- 
ing her  gently,  while  Mildred  cut  away  the  long,  golden 
tresses,  at  which,  in  her  wild  moods,  she  clutched  so 
angrily. 

"  Poor  shorn  lamb,"  he  whispered,  while  his  tears, 
large  and  warm,  dropped  upon  the  wasted  face  he  had 


B  Y  MAR  Yf.  HOLMES.  359 

not  kissed  since  the  night  he  and  Mildred  watched  with 
her  and  heard  so  much  of  the  sad  story. 

But  for  the  help  which  cometh  only  from  on  high, 
Adam's  heart  would  have  broken,  those  long  bright 
September  days,  when  everything  seemed  to  mock  his 
woe.  It  was  so  different  from  what  he  had  hoped 
when  he  built  castles  of  the  Autumn  time,  when  Anna 
would  be  with  him.  She  was  there,  it  is  true ;  there  in 
the  room  he  had  called  ours,  but  was  as  surely  lost  to 
him,  he  said,  as  if  the  bright-hued  flowers  were  blos- 
soming above  her  grave.  She  did  not  love  him,  else 
she  had  never  purposed  to  deceive  him,  and  he  looked 
drearily  forward  to  the  time  when  he  must  again  take 
up  his  solitary  life,  uncheered  by  one  hope  in  the 
future. 

She  awoke  to  consciousness  at  last.  It  was  in  the 
grey  dawn  of  the  morning,  when  Adam  was  sitting  by 
her,  while  her  mother  and  Mildred  rested  in  the  adjoin- 
ing room.  Eagerly  she  seemed  to  be  searching  for 
something,  and  when  Adam  asked  for  what,  she  an- 
swered :  "  The  note ;  I  had  it  in  my  hand  when  I  went 
to  sleep." 

Bending  over  her,  Adam  said :  "  I  found  it ;  I  gave  it 
to  him." 

There  was  a,perceptible  start,  a  flushing  of  Anna's 
cheek  and  a  frightened,  half  pleading  look  in  her  eyes; 
but  she  asked  no  questions,  and  thinking  she  would 
rather  not  have  him  there,  Adam  went  quietly  out  to 
her  mother  with  the  good  news  of  Anna's  conscious- 
ness. 

Days  went  by  after  that,  days  of  slow  convalescence  ; 
but  now  that  he  was  no  longer  needed  in  the  sick 
room,  Adam  stayed  away.  Tokens  of  his  thoughtful 
care,  however,  were  visible  everywhere,  in  the  tasteful 
bouquets  arranged  each  morning,  just  as  he  knew  Anna 
liked  them — in  the  luscious  fruit  and  tempting  delica- 
cies procured  by  him  for  the  weak  invalid  who  at  last 
asked  Mildred  to  call  him  and  leave  them  alone  to- 
gether. 

At  first  there  was  much  constraint  on  either  side,  but 
at  last  Anna  burst  out  impetuously,  "  Oh,  Adam,  I  do 
not  know  what  I  said  in  my  delirium,  or  how  much  you 
know,  and  so  I  must  tell  you  everything." 

Then,  as  rapidly  as  possible  and  without  excusing 


360  ADAM  FLOYD. 

herself  in  the  least,  she  told  her  story  and  what  she 
had  intended  to  do. 

For  a  moment  Adam  did  not  speak,  and  when  he  did 
it  was  to  ask  if  Mildred  had  told  her  about  Herbert. 
But  his  name  had  not  been  mentioned  between  the  two 
girls  and  thus  it  devolved  upon  Adam  to  explain. 
Herbert  had  left  the  neighborhood  and  gone  abroad 
immediately  after  Anna's  convalescence  was  a  settled 
thing. 

"  Perhaps  he  will  soon  come  back,"  Adam  said,  and 
Anna  cried,  "Oh,  Adam,  I  never  wish  him  to  return,  I 
know  now  that  I  never  loved  him  as — I — oh,  I  wish  I 
had  died." 

"  You  were  not  prepared,  and  God  spared  you  to  us. 
We  are  very  glad  to  have  you  back,"  Adam  said. 

These  were  the  first  words  he  had  spoken  which  had 
in  them  anything  like  his  former  manner,  and  Anna 
involuntarily  stretched  her  hand  towards  him.  He 
took  it,  and  letting  it  rest  on  his  broad,  warm  palm, 
smoothed  it  a  little  as  he  would  have  smoothed  a  little 
child's,  but  what  Anna  longed  to  hear  was  not  spoken, 
and  in  a  tremor  of  pain  she  sobbed  out, 

"  In  mercy,  speak  to  me  once  as  you  used  to.  Say 
that  you  forgive  me,  even  though  we  never  can  be  to 
each  other  again  what  we  have  been  ! " 

"  I  do  forgive  you,  Anna ;  and,  as  for  the  rest  I  did 
not  suppose  you  wished  it." 

Raising  herself  up,  Anna  threw  her  arms  impetuously 
around  his  neck,  exclaiming. 

"  I  do  wish  it,  Adam.  Don't  cast  me  off.  Try  me, 
and  see  if  I  am  not  worthy.  I  have  sinned,  but  I  have 
repented  too.  Never  were  you  so  dear  to  me!  Oh, 
Adam,  take  me  back  !  " 

She  was  getting  too  much  excited,  and  putting  her 
arms  from  his  neck,  Adam  laid  her  upon  the  pillow, 
and  said  to  her  gently, 

"  Anna,  my  faith  in  you  has  been  shaken,  but  my 
love  has  never  changed.  You  must  not  talk  longer 
now.  I'll  come  again  by  and  by,  and  meantime  I'll 
send  Miss  Atherton.  She  knows  it  all,  both  from 
Herbert  and  yourself.  She  is  a  noble  girl.  You  can 
trust  her." 

At  Adam's  request  Mildred  went  to  Anna,  and  sitting 
down  beside  her,  listened  while  Anna  confessed  the 


BY  MARY  J.  HOLMES.  36 1 

past,  even  to  the  particulars  of  her  interview  with 
Adam,  and  then  added  tearfully, 

"  Forgive  me  and  tell  me  what  to  do." 

"  I  should  be  an  unworthy  disciple  of  Him  who  said 
forgive,  until  seventy  times  seven,  if  I  refused  your 
request,"  was  Mildred's  reply,  as  she  wound  her  arm 
around  Anna's  neck,  and  imprinted  upon  Anna's  lips 
i he  kiss  of  pardon. 

Then  as  Anna  could  bear  it,  she  unfolded  her  plan, 
which  was  that  the  invalid  should  return  with  her  to 
her  pleasant  home  at  Rose  Hill,  staying  there  until 
she  had  fully  tested  the  strength  of  her  love  for  Adam, 
who,  if  she  stood  the  test  should  come  for  her  himself. 
As  a  change  of  air  and  scene  seemed  desirable,  Anna's 
mother  raised  no  serious  objection  to  this  arrangement, 
and  so  one  October  morning  Adam  Floyd  held  for  a 
moment  a  little  wasted  hand  in  his  while  he  said  good- 
bye to  its  owner,  who  so  long  as  he  was  in  sight  leaned 
from  the  carriage  window  to  look  at  him  standing 
there  so  lone  and  solitary,  yet  knowing  it  was  better  to 
part  with  her  awhile  if  he  would  have  their  future  as 
bright  as  he  had  once  fancied  it  would  be. 

Eight  years  have  passed  away  and  on  the  broad 
piazza  of  Castlewild  a  sweet-faced  woman  stands, 
waiting  impatiently  the  arrival  of  the  carriage  winding 
slowly  up  the  hill,  and  which  stops  at  last,  while 
Mildred  Atherton  alights  from  it  and  ascends  the  steps 
to  where  Anna  stands  waiting  for  her.  And  Mildred 
who  for  years  has  been  abroad,  and  has  but  recently 
returned  to  America,  has  come  to  be  for  a  few  weeks 
her  guest,  and  to  see  how  Anna  deports  herself  as  the 
wife  of  Adam  Floyd,  and  mistress  of  beautiful 
Castlewild. 

There  is  a  sad  story  connected  with  Anna's  being 
there  at  Castlewild,  a  story  which  only  Mildred  can  tell, 
and  in  the  dusky  twilight  of  that  first  evening  when 
Adam  was  away  and  the  baby  Milly  asleep  in  its  crib, 
she  takes  Anna's  hand  in  hers  and  tells  her  what  Anna 
indeed  knew  before,  but  which  seems  far  more  real  as 
it  comes  from  Mildred's  lips,  making  the  tears  fall  fast 
as  she  listens  to  it.  Tells  her  how  Providence  directed 
her  to  the  room  in  a  Paris  hotel,  where  a  fellow- 
countryman  lay  dying,  alone  and  unattended  save  by 


362  ADAM  FLOYD. 

a  hired  nurse.  The  sick  room  was  on  the  same  hall 
with  her  own,  and  in  passing  the  door,  which  was  ajar, 
she  was  startled  to  hear  a  voice  once  familiar  to  her 
and  which  seemed  to  call  her  name.  Five  minutes 
later  and  she  was  sitting  by  Herbert  Dunallen's  bed- 
side and  holding  his  burning  hand  in  hers,  while  he 
told  her  how  long  he  had  lain  there  with  the  fever  con- 
tracted in  the  south  of  France,  and  how  at  the  moment 
she  passed  his  door  he  was  crying  out  in  his  anguish 
and  desolation  for  the  friends  so  far  away,  and  had 
spoken  her  name,  not  knowing  she  was  so  near. 

After  that  Milly  was  his  constant  attendant,  and 
once  when  she  sat  by  him  he  talked  to  her  of  the  past 
and  of  Anna,  who  had  been  three  years  the  wife  of 
Adam  Floyd. 

"  I  am  glad  of  it,"  he  said.  "  She  is  happier  with 
him  than  she  could  have  been  with  me.  I  am  sorry 
that  I  ever  came  between  them,  it  was  more  my  fault 
than  hers,  and  I  have  told  Adam  so.  I  wrote  him  from 
Algiers  and  asked  his  forgiveness,  and  he  answered 
my  letter  like  the  noble  man  he  is.  There  is  peace 
between  us  now,  and  I  am  glad.  I  have  heard  from 
him,  or  rather  of  him  since  in  a  roundabout  way.  He  lost 
his  right  arm  in  the  war,  and  that  will  incapacitate 
him  from  his  work.  He  can  never  use  the  hammer 
again.  I  do  not  suppose  he  has  so  very  much  money. 
Anna  liked  Castle  wild.  In  fact  I  believe  she  cared 
more  for  that  than  for  me,  and  I  have  given  it 
to  her ; — have  made  my  will  to  that  effect.  It  is  with 
my  other  papers,  and  Milly,  when  I  am  dead,  you  will 
see  that  Anna  has  her  own.  I  did  not  think  it  would 
come  quite  so  soon,  for  I  am  young  to  die.  Not  thirty 
yet,  but  it  is  better  so,  perhaps.  You  told  me  that 
you  prayed  for  me  every  day,  and  the  memory  of  that 
has  stuck  to  me  like  a  burr,  till  I  have  prayed  for  my- 
self, more  than  once,  when  I  was  well,  and  often  since 
shut  up  in  this  room  which  I  shall  never  leave  alive. 
Stay  by  me,  Milly,  to  the  last ;  it  will  not  be  long,  and 
pray  that  if  I  am  not  right,  God  will  make  me  so. 
Show  me  the  way,  Milly,  I  want  to  be  good,  I  am  sorry, 
oh,  so  sorry  for  it  all." 

For  a  few  days  longer  he  lingered,  and  then  one 
lovely  autumnal  morning,  when  Paris  was  looking  her 


B  Y  MAR  Y  J.  HOLMES.  363 

brightest,  he  died,  wilh  Milly's  hand  in  his,  and  Milly's 
tears  upon  his  brow. 

And  so  Castlewild  came  to  Anna,  .who  had  been 
three  years  its  mistress  when  Milly  came  to  visit  her, 
and  on  whose  married  life  no  shadow  however  small 
had  fallen,  except,  indeed,  the  shadows  which  are 
common  to  the  lives  of  all.  When  her  husband  came 
home  from  the  war  a  cripple,  as  he  told  her  with 
quivering  lips,  her  tears  fell  like  rain  for  him,  because 
he  was  sorry,  but  for  herself  she  did  not  care  ;  he  was 
left  to  her,  and  kissing  him  lovingly  she  promised  to  be 
his  right  arm  and  to  work  for  him  if  necessary,  even 
to  building  houses,  if  he  would  teach  her  how.  But 
poverty  never  came  to  Adam  Floyd  and  Anna,  and 
probably  never  would  have  come,  even  if  there  had 
been  no  will  which  left  them  Castlewild.  That  was  a 
great  surprise,  and  at  first  Adam  hesitated  about  going 
there.  But  Anna  persuaded  him  at  last,  and  there  we 
leave  them,  perfectly  happy  in  each  other's  love,  and 
both  the  better,  perhaps,  for  the  grief  and  pain  which 
came  to  them  in  their  youth. 


My  Borrowing  Neighbor, 


BY 


MAKGARET  E.  SANGSTER, 


MARGARET  E.  SANGSTER. 


THE  literary  career  of  Mrs.  Sangster,  born  Margaret 
E.  Munson,  began  in  her  seventeenth  year,  when  she 
wrote  and  published  a  book — a  child's  story — called 
"  Little  Jamie."  Before  that,  however,  she  had  writ- 
ten verses,  competed  for  prizes  (and  won  them)  with 
essays  and  other  writings.  For  seventeen  years  she  has 
entirely  supported  her  family  by  journalistic  work. 

She  is  a  graceful  as  well  as  a  strong  writer ;  her 
verses  are  full  of  tender,  often  religious,  sentiments 
and  her  stories  are  bright  and  well  told.  But  most  of 
her  writing  at  this  day  is  for  the  newspapers,  and  goes 
out  to  the  world  without  her  name.  However  pleasant 
may  be  the  fields  of  general  literature,  when  it  comes 
to  the  question  of  a  steady  income,  the  writer,  if  he 
is  wise,  takes  to  journalism. 

Mrs.  Sangster  married  early  and  accepted  the  care 
of  a  family  of  children,  and  has  been  a  successful  step- 
mother. She  has  one  child  of  her  own,  a  son,  and 
within  the  last  year  or  two  has  arrived  at  the  dignity  of 
grandmotherhood.  Her  home  is  in  Brooklyn,  where 
she  has  many  friends,  and  is  noted  for  her  active  labors 
in  connection  with  church  and  Sunday-school  work. 

In  the  beginning  of  her  settled  work  she  was  con- 
nected with  that  attractive  but  rather  short  lived  paper, 
Hearth  and  Home.  .Since  that  time  she  has  worked 
on  the  Christian  at  Work,  The  Christian  Intelli- 
gencer, and  latterly  Harper's  Young  People,  in  which 
she  has  won  lasting  fame  among  the  young  readers  as 
"The  Little  Postmistress."  She  is  a  steady  worker  in 
several  fields — book  reviewing,  story  writing,  and  verse 
making. 

Mrs.   Sangster,    though    a    steady   and    systematic 
worker,  is  an  enthusiastic  one  ;    in  speaking  of  her  pro- 
fession as  a  journalist  she  once  said  : — "I  love  it  with 
all  my  heart,  and  would  not  exchange  it  with   all   its 
371 

* 


372  MARGARET  E.  SANGSTER. 

drudgery  for  any  other  position  of  which  I  can  dream 
Everything  about  it  suits  me  and  charms  me.  More, 
perhaps,  than  anything  else,  I  value  the  opportunity  it 
gives  me  to  say  helpful  words,  and  reach  a  cordial 
hand  to  the  struggling  of  my  sex. 

For  a  quarter  of  a  century  Mrs.  Sangster  has  been 
before  the  public  as  a  writer,  beginning  as  a  writer  of 
verse,  and  combining  later  the  practical  work  of  a 
critic  and  journalist.  So  much  of  her  writing  has  been 
impersonal  that  she  has  not  the  credit  her  due  for 
clever  work,  honestly  done. 


MY  BORROWING  NEIGHBOR. 


I  REMEMBER  everything  we  had  for  breakfast  that 
morning.  Why  I  remember  so  very  ordinary  a  thing 
as  breakfast,  and  why  that  special  morning  lives  in  my 
memory,  distinct  and  unfaded,  I  cannot  explain. 

Among  the  many  mysteries  of  psychology,  none  are 
more  mysterious  to  my  thinking,  than  the  things  we 
remember,  and  the  things  we  don't.  We  set  ourselves, 
with  prayer  and  pains,  to  the  fixing  of  a  certain  event 
or  string  of  events  in  our  recollection,  and  the  next 
week  we  try  in  vain  to  find  the  thing  again.  We've 
locked  it  up  in  our  mental  lumber-room  and  lost  the 
key.  We  take  no  conscious  notice  of  another  event,  or 
string  of  events  ;  we  are  not  aware  that  they  are  mak- 
ing any  marked  or  deep  impression  upon  us,  and  years 
after  a  random  word  or  an  idle  jest  awakes  them,  and 
up  they  start  as  fresh  and  bright  as  if  they  had  hap- 
pened yesterday. 

We  had  for  breakfast  that  morning  fried  chicken, 
light  rolls,  and  coffee.  There  was  fruit  on  the  table, 
of  course.  We  always  had  fruit  whatever  the  season,  and 
this  being  summer  time,  we  had  figs — fresh  figs,  pale 
green  and  rich  purple,  gathered  with  the  morning  dew 
upon  them,  great  delicious  spheres  and  ovals  of  hon- 
eyed sweetness.  Breakfast  was  well  begun,  and  Cousin 
John  had  just  asked  for  his  second  cup,  when  the  door 
of  the  dining-room, — the  door,  I  mean,  that  opened 
upon  the  back  porch,  was  shaded  by  an  apparition. 

A  little  negro  girl,  barefooted,  of  course,  had  come 
up  the  porch  steps  so  softly  that  nobody  had  heard 
her.  The  first  I  knew  of  her  presence  was  my  seeing 
her  standing  there,  and  hearing  her  say,  as  she  held 
out  a  cup  and  saucer  upon  a  tray : 

"Please,  Miss  Elizabeth,  sendM.\ss  Malvina  a  cup  o' 
your  coffee.     She  say  she  done  got  an'    choc'lat    dis 
yere  mornin',  but  she  like  a  cup  o'  coffee." 
373 


374  MY  BORROWING  NEIGHBOR. 

"  That  must  be  our  new  neighbor,  Libbie,"  said 
Cousin  John,  as  our  dignified  waiter,  Henry,  with  the 
utmost  pomp  and  ceremony  took  the  cup  from  the 
small  servitor  and  carried  it  to  me. 

"  Does  your  mistress  like  cream  and  sugar  ? "  I 
inquired. 

"  Reckon  her  got  sugar — want  cream,  though." 

So  I  poured  out  a  cup  of  my  coffee,  and  sent  it,  rich 
with  cream,  to  my  unknown  friend.  Her  house  and 
mine  were  pretty  near  together, — not  like  houses  in 
New  York,  of  course,  for  in  the  town  where  we 
lived,  people  had  not  learned,  as  yet,  to  build  their 
houses  like  barracks  in  long  uniform  rows ;  every 
man's  front  door  precisely  like  every  other  man's  on 
the  street,  and  the  windows  all  as  similar  as  peas  in  a 
pod.  All  our  houses  there  had  gardens  around  them, 
and  places  for  the  children  to  play,  and  trees  and 
flowers,  and  we  all  kept  dogs  and  chickens  and  pigs. 

Down  at  the  foot  of  our  lane,  there  was  a  picturesque 
cottage  that  had  been  long  untenanted.  It  had  a  gar- 
den^sloping  to  the  water's  edge,  and  its  eaves  were  over- 
run with  roses  and  honeysuckles.  A  day  or  two  before 
the  opening  of  my  story,  a  load  of  furniture  had  gone 
down  the  lane,  followed  soon  after  by  another,  and 
another.  Then  a  fat  and  pompous  colored  woman  had 
made  her  appearance  at  the  back  door,  which  was  in 
full  view  from  ours,  a  woman  who  from  her  gay  turban 
to  her  slippered  feet  had  cook  inscribed  upon  her ;  a 
gray-haired  serving  man  had  been  seen  to  shuffle  in 
a  promiscuous  manner  about  the  premises,  and  finally 
a  carriage  load  of  ladies,  a  poodle  clog,  and  a  canary 
bird  had  arrived,  and  completed,  we  supposed,  the 
family.  The  first  night  we  had  heard  no  sounds,  as 
was  natural,  for  having  come  from  somewhere  (the  car- 
riage had  been  driven  up  soon  after  the  arrival  of  the 
daily  boat)  the  travellers  had  been  tired,  and  had  gone 
to  bed  early,  no  doubt.  But  next  morning  it  was  very 
pleasant  to  hear  the  gay  snatches  of  talk,  the  rippling 
sounds  of  laughter,  and  the  occasional  burst  of  music 
from  a  rather  old,  but  sweet-toned,  piano,  that  came 
floating  to  us  merrily,  as  we  sat  on  our  porch,  John 
with  his  newspaper,  and  I  with  my  knitting. 

"  I'm  glad  those  girls  are  there,"  said  John. 

"  Of  course  you  are,"  said  I ;  "  though  what  differ- 


BY  MARGARET  E.  SANGSTER.  375 

ence  can  it  possibly  make  to  you  ?  you  never  go  very 
much  with  girls." 

The  fact  was  that  my  Cousin  John,  though  a  lawyer, 
and  a  good  looking  man  of  forty,  was  as  diffident  and 
shy  as  a  school-girl  on  commencement  day ;  and  his 
usual  custom  was  to  beat  a  retreat  to  his  room,  if  he 
could  accomplish  it  safely,  whenever  he  heard  the 
approaching  rustle  of  a  silk  dress,  or  caught  sight  of 
feathers  and  flowers,  like  Birnam  wood  coming  to 
Dunsinane,  advancing  down  our  garden  walk. 

"  Oh,  well  ! "  said  John,  "  I  like  to  see  them  about 
and  hear  them,  when  they  don't  want  me  to  entertain 
them,  you  know  ;  and  that  younger  one  is  certainly 
pretty." 

Pretty  she  was,  with  golden  hair,  and  a  white  dress  : 
so  much  we  could  see,  as  she  flitted  in  and  out  between 
her  mother  and  sisters.  Indeed,  they  were  all  pretty. 
The  mother,  plump,  matronly,  easy-going;  the  two 
elder  girls,  brown-haired  and  stately,  and  this  fairy  of 
a  "  Lill,"  whom  everybody  was  calling  on,  from  morning 
to  night. 

That  was  one  day.  It  was  the  second  day  that  they 
made  my  acquaintance  and  I  theirs.  It  began  with 
the  coffee. 

I  had  established  myself  in  the  quiet,  pleasant  hours 
that  come  midway  between  breakfast  and  noon,  with 
my  writing-desk  on  my  lap  and  my  inkstand  on  a 
chair  beside  me.  That's  a  woman's  way  of  being 
cosy  and  confidential  with  her  paper  when  she  writes 
a  letter.  A  man  sits  straight  up  with  his  bath-note  or 
his  commercial  on  the  desk  or  the  table,  writes  his  one 
page  or  his  four,  and  has  done  with  it.  A  woman 
takes  her  dainty  French  sheet,  with  the  faint  sugges- 
tion of  perfume,  mignonette,  or  heliotrope  clinging  to 
it,  and  selects  her  pen  daintily  ;  and,-  if  her  letter  be 
to  a  friend  she  cares  for,  some  absent  precious  darling, 
her  heart  lingers  over  and  caresses  the  words  as  she 
writes  them,  and  the  missive,  inconsequent  and  diffuse 
and  feminine  as  possible,  goes  out  full-weighted  with 
tenderness.  Now  I  do  hate  to  be  interrupted  when 
I'm  writing  such  letters  as  I  was  that  day.  My  slen- 
der stock  of  patience  deserts  me  utterly  if  people  will 
persist  in  coming  with  all  sorts  of  questions  just  when 
I'm  overflowing  with  bright  thoughts  and  loving 


3/6  MY  BORROWING  NEIGHBOR. 

epithets.  "  But  what  has  this  to  do  with  my  nar- 
rative ?  "  you  ask. 

Well,  this  :  I  was  just  in  the  midst  of  a  sparkling 
sentence  when  a  voice  broke  on  my  ear  : 

u  Please,  Miss  Elizabeth,  send  Miss  Lill  two  lumps 
o'  sugar  to  feed  her  bird  ?  Her  sugar  all  done  used 
up." 

How  on  earth  did  that  mite  learn  that  my  name  was 
Elizabeth  ? 

Two  lumps  of  sugar  !  noblesse  oblige.  My  mother's 
daughter  was  not  brought  up  to  count  sugar  by  lumps. 
I  sent — misguided  creature  that  I  was — I  sent  a  cup- 
ful. 

Well,  I  began  again  on  my  letter  and  I  finished  it 
and  began  another.  I  was  half  through  that  one 
when  again  there  came  the  soft  voice,  and  looking  up, 
there  met  my  own  the  great,  velvety,  appealing  eyes 
again,  black  as  Erebus,  through  the  surrounding  black- 
ness of  that  child's  dusky  face. 

"  Please,  Miss  Eliz'beth,  send  Miss  Constantia  a 
sheet  of  note  paper  and  a  envelop'  ?  Her  done 
dropped  de  key  ob  her  trunk  down  de  well,  and  her 
want  to  write  a  letter  to  a  frien'." 

"  I'm  afraid  you  are  coming  upon  errands  of  your 
own,"  I  answered  with  severity  of  aspect.  "  Miss 
Constantia  never  sent  you." 

"  Yes,  indeed,  she  did,"  persisted  Black-eyed  Susan, 
as  in  my  mind  I  had  named  this  young  person. 

"  Well,  here  it  is  then ;  but  when  I  see  Miss  Con- 
stantia I'll  ask  her  about  it." 

A  week  later  we  called.  Cousin  John  was  so 
pleased  with  the  glimmer  of  Miss  Lillie's  curls  in  the 
distance  that  he  actually  so  far  overcame  his  native 
shyness  as  to  consent  to  be  my  escort.  What  he  wore 
I  don't  know — a  coat  and  vest  probably,  pantaloons 
and  shoes  of  some  sort,  of  course,  and  a  necktie  and 
gloves — also  a  shirt.  A  gentleman's  costume  admits 
of  so  little  variety.  I  was  in  all  the  glory  of  a  new 
suit — lavender  silk  and  Brussels  point  lace,  and  my 
lovely  black  lace  shawl,  a  shawl  that  haunts  my  regret- 
ful dreams,  though  long  ago  it  left' me  for  parts  un- 
known, borne  away  by  a  burglar  on  the  war-path. 
You  may  break,  you  may  shatter  the  vase  if  you  will, 
but  the  thought  of  past  laces  will  hang  round  it  still. 


BY  MARGARET  E.  SANGSTER.  377 

Mrs.  Vernon  and  her  daughters  received  us  with 
cordial  empressement.  They  were  elegant  women,  all 
of  them,  with  society  manners  and  a  sort  of  graceful, 
high-bred  air  that  charmed  me  and  utterly  captivated 
and  enthralled  Cousin  John.  I  forgot  to  say  I  wore 
pearls.  We  always  dressed  in  our  very  bestest  best  when 

we  made  calls  in  town,  having  no  other  way  in 

which  to  display  our  goods.  It  was  the  thing  to  be  en 
grande  toilette  when  you  made  a  call.  Ours  was  delight- 
ful. The  gray-haired  waiter  brought  us  lemonade,  and 
Mrs.  Vernon  complimented  us  on  having  fruit  in  abund- 
ance in  our  garden. 

"Literally  under  your  own  vine  and  fig-tree,''  she 
said.  Whereupon  I  at  once  gave  her  the  freedom  of 
berries,  cherries,  peas,  beans,  plums,  pears  and  all, 
telling  her  whenever  she  desired,  to  help  herself  freely. 
She  accepted  my  courtesy  in  th«  same  spirit  in  which 
it  was  offered,  and  we  parted  the  best  of  friends. 

Constantia,  Katherine,  and  Lillie  returned  the  call 
next  day,  and  staid  two  hours.  Katherine  tried  my 
piano,  and  Lillie  made  love  to  my  birds.  As  for  Con- 
stantia, she  was  suave  and  winning,  and,  if  I  do  say 
it,  made  love  to  Cousin  John.  I  was  delighted  to  find 
that  he  was  blind  as  a  bat  to  her,  however,  and  had 
eyes  only  for  little  Lillie. 

A  few  days  after,  I  decided  to  make  plum  preserves. 
"  Henry,"  I  said,  "  when  you  have  returned  from  mar- 
ket, please  gather  the  plums."  A  sort  of  flash,  it  was 
not  more,  lit  the  decorous  gravity  of  Henry's  usually 
immovable  features. 

"  The  plums  are  done  picked,"  he  said. 

"  Oh  !  very  well,"  said  I.  "  Then  I'll  go  right  at 
my  preserving." 

"  But,  Miss  Elizabeth,  Paul  gathered  the  plums  yes 
terday  for  Miss  Malvina  Vernon,  and  Aunt  Hester  am 
busy  preserving  them  for  her." 

"  All  the  plums  ?  "    I  said,  amazed. 

"  Ebery  plum,"  said  Henry  solemnly. 

The  Bible  tells  about  "  spoiling  the  Egyptians  and 
spoiling  the  Philistines."  I  had  never  felt  any  special 
sympathy  with  them  before,  but  for  five  minutes  after 
I  found  my  plums  were  gone  I  knew  how  they  felt, 
poor  things — I  wonder  if  the  spoilers  took  "  ei>ery 
plum." 


378  MY  BORROWING  NEIGHBOR. 

"  Henry,"  said  I,  "  buy  me  two  baskets  of  plums,  and 
send  them  home  from  market  directly," — which 
Henry  did.  I  put  on  a  calico  dress  and  a  housekeep- 
ing apron,  crossed  my  little  flagged  yard  and  entered 
the  kitchen.  Aunt  Diana  was  paring  potatoes,  three 
or  four  of  her  tribe  were  sitting  and  standing  about, 
and  at  my  entrance  they  scuttled  out  of  the  way,  all 
but  the  baby,  a  funny  little  black  ball,  that  I  petted  a 
great  deal.  She  crawled  up  to  me,  and  began  to  play 
with  the  rosettes  on  my  slippers  with  her  little  fat 
hands. 

"  Aunt  Diana,"  I  said,  "  I'm  going  to  preserve  plums." 

"  Laws,  honey  ! "  said  Aunt  Diana,  "  how  can  ye 
do  it  to-day,  'less  you  borrow  a  preservin'  kittle  from 
some  o'  the  neighbors  ?  " 

"  I  borrow  a  preserving  kettle  !  Why,  Auntie,  your 
wits  are  wool-gathering ;  I've  a  splendid  new  one  of 
my  own.  Why  should  I  borrow  ?" 

"  Ef  you  will  len'  your  things,  chile,  right  an'  lef 
you  may  come  to  borrowin'  yet.  Miss  Malvina,  she 
done  took  off  de  preservin'  kettle  yesterday.' 

"  Why,  I  never  said  she  could  have  it !  " 

"  She  send  up  while  you  and  Mas'r  John  out  riding ; 
say  she  mus'  hab  it  right  off.  I  say  I  cannot  len'  it 
without  your  consent,  on  no  'suasion  whatsoeber." 

"That  settled  it,  of  course  ?  " 

"  Miss  Katherine,  she  come  herse'f  and  say  you  hab 
tole  her  she  could  hab  it ;  so  circumstances  alterin' 
cases,  I  sent  Henry  down  with  it.'* 

"  Diana,  send  Henry  at  once,  and  say  that  I  am 
waiting  to  use  it,  and  beg  they  will  return  it  directly." 

I  sat  down  and  fanned  myself.  I  fanned  and 
fanned  and  fanned  and  concealed  my  feelings,  which 
were  not  serene  nor  satisfied. 

After  an  interval  Henry  came  bringing  with  him — a 
kettle.  Shades  of  my  ancestors  !  was  that  my  pre- 
serving kettle  ?  Dear  to  the  housekeeping  soul  is  its 
humblest  pot  and  pan  ;  especially  sacred  is  its  porce- 
lain-lined, immaculate,  and  thrice-prized  and  guarded 
kettle,  in  which  summer  fruits  are  crystallized  into 
molds  of  beauty  and  things  of  joy  for  the  winter  and 
the  early  spring,  the  days  when  there  shall  be  nothing 
to  make  pies  of.  I  was  careless  about  many  things : 
I  lost  my  best  gloves  and  forgot  my  umbrella  in  a 


B  Y  MA  K  GA  RE  T  E.  SANGS  TEK.  3  79 

store  down  town  ;  I  put  away  things  ST  carefully  that 
I  CDuld  not  find  them,  but  I  did  look  well  on  the  ways 
of  my  kitchen  furniture. 

This  keule  was  ruined.  It  was  burned  brown  three 
quarters  up  the  sides.  I  stood  in  silent  despair.  At 
List  I  spoke. 

"  If  you,  Diana,  can  do  the  plums  in  that  thing  you 
may.  I  shall  never  use  it  again." 

1  shut  myself  up  in  that  refuge  of  the  weary,  my  own 
chamber.  I  thought  of  the  misery  it  was  to  have  a 
borrowing  neighbor.  Our  colTee,  I  may  mention  was 
by  this  time  made  daily  with  an  eye  to  Mrs.  Vernon's 
needs,  and  her  cup  and  saucer  was  now  changed  for  a 
small  pitcher,  which,  morning  by  morning  was  replen- 
ished from  my  urn.  I  felt  tempted,  as  that  practical 
man,  Cousin  John,  suggested  occasionally,  to  make  it 
half  water,  but  when  it  came  to  the  point  it  was  not 
possible  for  me  to  commit  such  a  meanness.  Noblesse 
oblige  again. 

A  bath,  a  clean  wrapper,  cologne,  and  a  new  novel, 
with  the  leaves  uncut — I  have  another  womanly  weak- 
ness, and  like  to  cut  my  own  leaves — restored  my 
amiability.  It  was  helped  too  by  whiffs  of  sweetness 
that  came  from  the  kitchen  where  Aunt  Di,  important 
and  quite  equal  to  the  occasion,  was  doing  up  my 
plums.  A  cheery  voice  and  a  brisk  step  in  the  hall 
below,  and  presently  my  name  called,  made  me  aware 
that  my  neighbor  was  below.  Had  she  come  to  apolo- 
gize ?  I  was  prepared  to  receive  her  apologies  gra- 
ciously, and  descended. 

How  little  I  knew  my  friend  !  Lightly  upon  her 
conscience,  if  she  were  aware  of  it  at  all,  sat  my  pre- 
serving kettle.  Ten  of  them  would  not  have  pressed 
a  feather's  weight  on  that  mercurial  mind. 

'•  My  love,"  she  said,  "  how  well  you  look  to-day. 
You  positively  don't  look  a  day  over  sixteen.  And 
how  magnificent  you  were  the  other  day  in  that  lace 
shawl.  Katherine  would  be  queenly  in  it,  but  since 

the Bank  broke,  my  poor  girls  can't  dress  as  I'd 

like  to  have  them.  By  the  bye,  they  are  asked  to  Miss 
Cornelia  Pegram's  wedding  to-day.  Our  family  is 
equal  to  the  Pegrams  if  we  are  poor,  and  I'd  like  hei 
to  look  as  well  as  anybody.  She  said  I  must  not,  in 
fact  she  nearly  cried  about  it,  but  I  told  her  you  would 


380  MY  BORROWING  NEIGHBOR. 

be  candid  and  say  "  no  "  if  you  did  not  want  to  say 
"  yes,"  and  it  would  be  no  harm  to  ask  you.  Now  do 
say  "  no  "  if  you'd  rather.  But  if  you'd  let  Kitty  wear 
your  lace  shawl,  it  would  drape  over  her  pearl  colored 
silk  in  a  manner  perfectly  statuesque." 

I  am  not,  I  grieve  to  say,  a  strong-minded  woman. 
I  dislike  to  appear  disobliging  ;  I'd  rather  suffer  mar- 
tyrdom than  say  "  no "  when  I'm  expected  to  say 
"  yes,"  when  only  my  own  convenience  is  concerned. 
So,  inly  provoked  and  outwardly  calm,  as  is  the  Machi- 
avellian manner  of  my  sex,  I  said  "yes,"  and  brought 
the  shawl. 

"  How  sweet  you  are  !  "  said  Mrs.  Vernon,  giving 
me  a  patronizing  kiss,  which  I  wiped  off  the  moment 
her  back  was  turned. 

Miss  Katherine  wore  my  shawl  to  the  reception,  and 
she  wore  it  to  church,  and  she  wore  it  everywhere — I 
am  not  romancing,  reader  mine — for  three  immortal 
weeks.  Then  I  sent  for  it,  and  it  came  home.  It  was 
not  particularly  the  worse  for  wear,  though  I  did  find  a 
microscopic  tear  that  had  been  carefully  darned,  and 
though  it  had  acquired  a  smell  of  patchouli  and  musk 
that  no  amount  of  airing  ever  quite  took  from  it  till  the 
day  it  parted  from  me  forever.  When  I  found  it  miss- 
ing the  thought  of  the  musk  went  a  little  way  toward 
consoling  me. 

My  borrowing  neighbors  borrowed  everything,  and 
never  returned  an  item,  from  the  least  to  the  greatest, 
unless  they  were  asked  to.  They  borrowed  my  prayer- 
book  and  my  hymn-book,  my  last  new  novel  and  my 
freshest  magazine,  my  aprons  for  patterns  and  my  bon- 
nets for  models:  They  borrowed  my  cups  and  sau- 
cers, my  silver  spoons — these  they  did  return,  however 
— and  my  dinner  plates  and  knives  and  forks.  They 
borrowed  not  the  raw  material  only — as  sugar  and  tea 
and  butter  and  soap, — they  systematically  made  de- 
mands upon  my  dinner  and  supper  and  breakfast 
table,  upon  my  cake-box  and  my  supply  of  bread,  until 
I  ceased  to  be  wonder-stricken,  and  yielded  an  apa- 
thetic assent  to  all  they  desired.  Last  of  all  they  bor- 
rowed my  Cousin  John. 

John  was  in  love  with  Lillie.  It  was  too  absurd,  I 
told  myself  over  and  over,  that  John  Winthrop,  who 
had  any  number  of  sensible  girls  to  select  from,  and 


B  Y  MARGARET  E.  SANGSTER.  38 1 

giris  near  his  own  age,  too, — though  what  man  of  forty 
ever  seeks  a  wife  of  his  own  age  ? — should  wear  his 
heart  upon  his  sleeve  for  a  little  trifler  like  Lillie 
Vernon.  Her  golden  hair,  her  flitting  blush,  her  violet 
eyes,  and  her  fairy-like  ways  had  woven  a  net  about 
the  grave,  scholarly  man,  from  which  he  could  not  free 
himself.  He,  the  most  methodical  of  gentleman,  was 
often  late  for  meals ;  he  took  to  writing  sentimental 
poetry,  with  rhymes  like  "  bloom  "  and  "  tomb,"  "sigh" 
and  "die,"  "darling"  and  "starling;"  he  bought 
beautiful  things,  and  lavished  them  on  Lillie,  who 
received  them  with  extravagant  admiration,  and  wore 
them  openly.  Cousin  John  was  continually  at  their 
service.  Mrs.  Vernon  and  all  the  girls  seemed  to 
regard  him  as  a  brother. 

"A  household  of  ladies  is  so  unprotected,  so  very 
dependent,"  Constantia  would  say,  "  and  Mr.  Winthrop 
is  so  obliging." 

As  for  me,  I  never  knew  before  how  many  useful 
things  John  had  done  before  Lillie's  star  had  risen  in 
our  path.  There  are  things  in  this  life  that  we  never 
prize  till  we  miss  them.  I  did  not  precisely  want  her 
for  a  cousin-in-law,  but  still  I  liked  her  much  the  best 
of  the  family;  and  I  thought  that  if  she  were  once 
John's  wife,  she  would  take  on  some,  at  least,  of  the 
dignity  that  was  so  becoming  to  John. 

There  came  a  day  when  John  consulted  me.  He 
thought  Lillie  loved  him,  fair,  timid  clove,  but  he  feared 
to  frighten  her  by  a  proposal,  and  he  didn't  think  it 
quite  honorable  to  let  things  go  on  as  they  were.  He 
had  spoken  to  Mrs.  Vernon,  but  she  said,  while  she 
was  herself  quite  willing  and  would  feel  honored  by 
the  alliance  she  could  not  speak  for  Lillie.  She  must 
decide  for  herself. 

"  But  then,  dear  John,"  said  I,  "  why  are  you  dis- 
tressed ?  I'm  sure  Lillie  seems  to  like  you  ever  so 
much,  and  you  know  the  old  rhyme  : 

'  He  either  fears  his  fate  too  much, 
Or  his  deserts  are  small, 
Who  dares  not  put  it  to  the  touch 
To  win  or  lose  it  all.'" 

"I'll  act  upon  your  advice,  Cousin  Libbie,"  said 
John. 


382  MY  BORROWING  NEIGHBOR. 

John  did — at  least  he  meant  to.  He  went  down 
the  lane  one  evening — a  lovely  evening  in  early 
autumn.  The  shaded  lamp  in  the  little  parlor  cast  a 
mellow  light  over  the  room,  over  Katherine  with  her 
regal  head  bent  over  a  book  of  poems,  over  Constantia 
with  her  crochet  work  in  her  while,  shapely  hands,  over 
"  airy,  fairy  Lillian,"  who  had  on  her  white  dress  as 
usual,  and  a  set  of  turquoise,  John's  gift,  as  her  only 
adornment.  By  her  side  sate  a  young  gentleman,  a  tall 
fellow  with  a  mustache  and  curly  brown  hair. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Winthrop  !  "  said  Lillie,  "  how  pleased  I 
am  to  see  you !  This  is  my  friend,  Mr.  Mortimer 
Selkirk,  and  I  want  him  to  know  you  and  you  to  know 
him.  I  may  as  well  tell  you,  you've  been  such  a  friend 
to  mamma  and  all  of  us,  that  Mortimer  and  I  have 
been  engaged  for  the  last  three  years,  and  we're  going 
to  be  married  next  week." 

We  sold  our  house  and  moved  away.  Cousin  John 
never  got  "over  it,  really,  however,  till  some  years 
after  he  met  Mrs.  Selkirk  at  Niagara.  She  had  grown 
dumpy  and  sallow,  and  had  three  children  and  a  maid, 
and  he  overheard  her  asking  her  neighbor  in  the  parlor 
if  she  wouldn't  be  so  very  kind  as  to  lend  her  her 
polonaise  long  enough  for  Mary  Jane  to  cut  the 
pattern. 


The  Girls'  Sketching  Camp. 


BY 


OLIVE  THORNE  MILLER. 


OLIVE  THORNE  MILLER. 


THE  writer  known  by  the  name  of  Olive  Thorne 
Miller  was  born  in  Central  New  York  State  more  than 
fifty  years  ago,  and  was  baptized  Harriet  Mann.  Her 
father  was  a  banker,  who  looking  at  life  through  the 
rosiest  of  spectacles,  always  saw  the  fair  land  of  prom- 
ise a  little  beyond  him,  and  perpetually  followed  the 
too  enticing  vision.  So  her  youth  was  passed  "  all 
along  the  roacl "  from  New  York  to  Missouri,  stopping 
from  three  to  five  years  in  each  place.  Western  New 
York,  Ohio,  Wisconsin  and  Illinois  were  respectively 
her  home,  till  by  marriage  she  settled  herself  in  Chi- 
cago for  her  first  long  residence  in  any  place.  About 
twelve  years  ago  she  removed  to  Brooklyn,  N.  Y., 
where  she  still  lives. 

Almost  from  the  cradle,  Mrs.  Miller  was  a  book- 
worm. Exceedingly  diffident,  avoiding  as  far  as  she 
could  all  association  with  others,  finding  no  sympathy 
with  her  peculiar  tastes  at  home  (her  three  brothers 
being  all  younger  than  herself),  she  shrank  more  and 
more  into  herself,  and  lived  more  and  more  in  her 
books.  A  shy,  awkward,  overgrown  girl,  with  a  pain- 
fully ready  blush,  is  the  picture  of  her  not  too  happy 
youth. 

To  write  was  always  her  ambition,  though  school 
compositions  she  hated  and  shirked  when  possible  ;  but 
she  was  slow  of  development  and  never  sent  anything 
to  the  press  till  nearly  twenty  years  old,  when  she 
began  writing  short  anonymous  letters  to  the  daily 
papers,  on  subjects  of  passing  interest.  At  the  age  of 
twenty-three  she  married,  added  the  name  of  Miller 
to  her  own,  and  with  the  notions  then  in  vogue,  thrust 
entirely  aside  her  literary  dreams,  and  gave  herself 
utterly  to  the  work  shi  had  assumed,  of  housekeeper 
%yd  mother,  FQUJ  children  came  to  her  home,  and 
389 


390  OLIVE  THORNE  MILLER. 

not  till  the  youngest  was  beyond  babyhood  did  she 
touch  literary  work  again. 

Toward  the  latter  part  of  this  domestic  period,  she 
began  to  write  an  occasional  letter  to  a  paper,  when 
feelings  grew  too  strong  for  silence.  It  was  then  she 
assumed  the  name  Olive  Thorne,  and  later  when  the 
pseudonym  was  somewhat  widely  known,  and  the  pos- 
session of  two  names  became  inconvenient,  she  added 
her  own  married  name  Miller. 

She  began  for  children,  and  for  several  years  she 
never  attempted  writing  for  others  than  her  little 
friends.  Gradually  she  drifted  into  sketches  of  natural 
history,  having  a  fresh,  vivid  way  of  depicting  the  per- 
sonality of  bird  or  beast,  that  made  it  an  acquaintance 
at  once,  and  proved  irresistible  to  every  youngster. 
These  early  sketches  published  everywhere,  were  col- 
lected in  1873  and  made  into  a  book  which  has  to  this 
day  a  steady,  regular  sale,  and  is  the  dearest  treasure 
of  hundreds  of  little  people  all  over  our  land,  "  Little 
Folk  in  Feathers  and  Fur."  Later  she  made  a  second 
collection  of  her  animal  sketches  which  she  called 
"  Queer  Pets  at  Marcy's."  Meanwhile  she  wrote  her 
first  long  story  "  Nimpo's  Troubles,"  which  ran  as  a 
serial  in  Saint  Nicholas  during  its  first  years.  A  year 
or  two  after  she  wrote  her  fourth  and  last  book  for 
children,  "  Little  People  of  Asia." 

A  few  years  ago  a  friend  introduced  Mrs.  Miller  to 
birds,  alive  and  free,  and  hardly  had  she  begun  to 
know  them,  when  she  dropped  all  other  work  and  de- 
voted herself  to  them  alone.  For  seven  or  eight  years 
now  she  has  given  her  days  and  almost  her  nights  to 
this  study,  and  every  line  of  her  writing  in  this  direc- 
tion is  original  observation.  The  work  of  others  she 
never -draws  upon ;  what  she  tells  is  always  what  she 
has  seen  for  herself,  and  the  one  thing  she  claims  for 
herself  is  the  strictest  accuracy,  both  of  seeing  and  of 
repeating.  Her  work  in  this  field,  after  publication  in 
the  Atlantic  and  other  magazines,  has  been  made  into 
two  volumes,  "  Bird  Ways  "  and  "  In  Nesting  Time," 


THE  GIRLS'  SKETCHING  CAMP. 


"  A  PARTY  of  girls !     Humph  !  " 

"  They'll  quarrel,"  said  brothers. 

"  They'll  be  imprudent,"  said  mothers. 

"  They'll  be  cheated,"  said  fathers. 

"  Who  ever  heard  of  such  a  thing  ? "  said  Mrs. 
Grundy. 

"  Besides,  they  don't  know  how  to  take  care  of  them- 
selves," began  the  brothers  again. 

"  And  they'll  be  sure  to  get  into  trouble,"  put  in  the 
mothers. 

"  And  spend  no  end  of  money,"  groaned  the  fathers. 

"  And  people  will  talk  about  them,"  added  Mrs. 
Grundy. 

Persuasions,  arguments,  and  predictions  a4ike  failed. 
These  girls  had  planned  the  expedition,  and  they 
carried  it  out,  with  some  concessions  to  a  doubting  and 
scoffing  world.  They  did  not  actually  camp  out,  in  the 
roughest  meaning  of  the  words,  and  they  did  consent 
to  a  "  Dragon,"  though  it  must  be  confessed  she  was 
of  the  mildest.  Her  age  and  gray  hairs  fitted  her  for 
the  position  of  figure-head  of  propriety,  and  nothing 
more  was  needed. 

The  party  of  girls,  then — Cooper  Institute  art  stu- 
dents— fourteen  in  number,  with  boxes  and  bags  and 
bundles  for  a  month's  absence,  sailed  out  of  New  York 
Harbor  one  fine  Thursday  evening  of  July,  in  the  good 
ship  Eleanora,  bound  for  Casco  Bay. 

"  I  can  hardly  believe  we  are  off,"  said  Nun — short 
for  None  Such — as  they  leaned  over  the  rail,  looking 
at  the  ever-widening  gulf  which  separated  them  from 
the  waving  and  cheering  crowd  on  shore.  And  truly 
it  did  seem  doubtful,  even  up  to  the  last  moment,  for 
parents  and  elder  sisters,  brothers  and  friends,  had 
crowded  the  deck,  armed  with  extra  wraps,  boxes  of 
candy,  lemons,  and  time-tables,  information  about 
39' 


392  THE  GIRLS'  SKETCHING  CAMP. 

trains  and  life-preservers,  and,  above  all,  volumes  of — 
advice. 

Nun's  remark  brought  out  a  hearty  response, — "  Yes, 
we're  really  off  now,  and  nobody  can  prevent ;  "  and 
fourteen  very  happy  girls  settled  themselves  to  enjoy 
the  lovely  evening  and  the  quiet  sail  up  the  East  River 
to  the  Sound. 

Perhaps  a  jollier  party  never  set  out  from  a  driving 
American  city,  and  surely  a  more  delightful  month  can 
never  come  into  the  lives  of  the  girls  than  began  on 
that  eventful  evening  when  they  started  alone  for 
the  home  they  had  engaged  in  the  backwoods  of 
Maine.  Among  the  multitude  of  letters  they  had  re- 
ceived from  boarding-house  keepers,  summer-resort 
people,  and  others  of  their  kind,  one  sentence  in  a  let- 
ter from  Maine  had  come  to  them  with  the  resistless- 
ness  of  fate. 

"  Nature  in  these  remote  regions,"  wrote  the  daughter 
of  the  Pine-tree  State,  "  has  not  combed  her  hair,  but 
in  her  tangled  tresses  she  is  enchanting  beyond  de- 
scription." 

Delicious  prospect ! — with  Mother  Nature  herself  for 
a  pattern — no  dress,  no  parade,  no  "  society  require- 
ments!"  "Ah!  there  we  will  go."  And  there  they 
did  go. 

The  ship  steamed  on  up  the  East  River,  past  the 
dismal  islands  whose  names  are  familiar  in  police 
records,  past  the  ghastly  wreck  of  the  Seawanhaka,  out 
into  the  beautiful  Sound.  The  girls'  party  divided 
naturally  into  two  parts,  by  ties  of  old  friendship — and 
a  mutual  lunch.  In  one  part,  eleven  staid,  well  be- 
haved damsels,  who  might  safely  travel  alone  from 
Maine  to  Florida,  with  Nun  as  their  head  ;  in  the  other 
part  the  three  madcaps  of  the  expedition — Clip,  full  of 
mischief  to  the  lips  ;  Peggy,  her  bosom-friend,  ready 
to  suggest  any  prank  that  did  not  occur  to  Clip's  fer- 
tile brain  ;  the  Dragon's  daughter,  or  D.  D. — and  the 
Dragon  herself,  to  keep  them  in  order. 

Lunch  was  dispatched ;  the  woman  who  was  deter- 
mined to  be  seasick,  and  had  carefully  established  her- 
self in  the  most  favorable  spot  in  the  cabin,  was 
sketched,  and  the  girls  set  out  to  explore  the  resources 
of  the  steamer.  Under  the  awning  at  the  back  of  the 
deck  were  the  arm-chairs  and  the  passengers.  Out  in 


BY  OLIVE  THORNE  MILLER.  393 

front,  temptingly  retired  and  unoccupied,  was  the  sharp 
and  narrow  bow. 

They  gathered  near  the  pilot-house,  and  cast  long- 
ing looks  ahead,  but  between  them  and  the  desired 
point  was  only  a  plank,  with  one  stretched  cord  for  a 
rail.  Was  that  a  hint  to  passengers  that  the  bow  was 
forbidden  ?  So  much  the  more  did  they  desire  it. 
Clip  looked  into  the  pilot-house.  A  pleasant-faced 
man  stood  at  the  wheel. 

"  Captain,"  he  said,  "  we  girls  are  dying  to  walk  the 
plank  :  may  we  do  it  ?  " 

"  Certainly,"  he  said,  "  if  you  dare,  and  if  you  won't 
stand  in  the  bow.  I  must  see  over  your  heads." 

He  was  thanked,  and  in  a  few  minutes  shawls,  rugs, 
and  girls  were  safely  established  in  a  c  zy  heap  on  the 
deck  forward,  where  they  watched  the  go  geous  sunset, 
talked  over  their  plans,  wondered  over  what  sort  of  a 
place  was  "  Duncan's,"  and  if  the  unchanging  bill  of 
fare  would  be  pork  and  molasses,  as  had  been  pre- 
dicted. And  as  the  hours  rolled  on,  they  saw  the  stars 
come  out,  named  the  light-houses  as  they  passed,  and 
at  last  recrossed  the  plank,  and  went  below,  where 
each  girl  drilled  herself  in  getting  into  a  life-preserver, 
and  then — being  on  the  water — "  turned  in." 

"  Now,  girls,"  said  Clip,  the  next  morning,  tossing 
her  saucy  head  with  an  air  of  compressed  wisdom,  and 
indicating  with  a  sweep  of  her  hand  the  smaller  party 
of  four,  "  we  are  the  four  chaperons,  and  if  any  of  you 
want  information  about  the  coast,  or  the  trains  at  Port- 
land, or  the  direction  of  the  wind,  or  the  rate  of  sailing 
or  anything — you  can  ask  me." 

The  girls  indignantly  refused  to  allow  her  the  honor 
she  had  assumed,  but  this  pleasant  little  fiction  it 
pleased  Miss  Clip  to  keep  up  all  the  way.  Whenever 
the  .Dragon,  attracted  by  shrieks  of  girlish  laughter,  or 
signs  of  interest  on  the  part  of  passengers,  hurried 
away  to  her  madcaps,  Clip  would  always  welcome  her 
with  effusion,  put  her  arm  through  hers,  and  say,  with 
dignity,  "  The  four  chaperons  must  keep  together." 

What  this  lively  party  meant,  and  where  they  were 
going,  was  a  subject  of  interest  to  passengers. 

"  It's  a  boarding-school,"  Clip  would  say,  demurely, 
when  any  one  looked  curious. 

"  It's  an  orphan  asylum,"  Peggy  would  add. 


394  THE  GIRLS'  SKETCHING  CAMP. 

"  We're  maniacs,"  one  of  the  quiet  ones  put  in,  but 
she  was  quickly  groaned  down. 

About  noon  the  steamer  stopped  at  Martha's  Vine- 
yard, and  the  party  went  ashore,  where  Peggy  man- 
aged to  throw  stones  "  like  a  boy,"  and  began  to  crow 
over  the  rest,  when  they  rose  in  their  might  and  put 
her  down  by  declaring  with  one  voice  that  they 
scorned  to  throw  stones  like  a  boy ;  they  preferred  to 
do  it  in  the  girls'  way. 

"  How  improper,  Peggy  ! "  said  Clip,  severely. 
"  How  dare  you  throw  like  a  boy,  and  then  brag  of  it  ? 
This  is  a  girls'  party,  and  boys  are  not  to  be  quoted  to 
us." 

"  Hadn't  we  better  go  back  ?  "  suggested  some  one, 
after  awhile. 

"  The  captain  said  he'd  wait  an  hour  for  me,"  said 
Clip,  sweetly. 

"What !  "  exclaimed  the  Dragon. 

"  He  said  he'd  wait  an  hour  any  time  for  a  young 
lady,"  she  hastened  to  add. 

Groans,  and  cries  of  "Oh  !  "  from  the  beach. 

"  Now,  my  young  lady,"  said  the  Dragon,  taking  her 
arm  as  they  walked  back,  "  I  shall  have  to  look  out  for 
you.  You  musn't  talk  to  the  captain  too  much." 

"  No,  'm,"  said  Clip  meekly.  "  I  like  the  engineer 
ever  so  much  better.  He's  perfectly  lovely." 

"Clip!  Clip!"  said  the  alarmed  Dragon,  "you 
haven't  been  talking  to  him  ? '' 

"  Oh  no,  of  course  not.  How  absurd  !  He  talked 
to  me." 

"  And  you  let  him  ?  " — with  horror. 

"  Why,  what  could  I  do,  'm  ?  "  said  Clip,  turning  a 
pair  of  surprised  brown  eyes  to  her  monitor.  "  You 
wouldn't  have  me  put  my  hands  over  his  mouth  ?  " 

"  You  could  walk  away,"  said  the  perplexed  Dragon. 

"  But  that  would  be  rude,"  said  Clip,  blandly ; 
"  mamma  always  told  me  so.  And  he  says  he'll  get  us 
a  truck  for  our  trunks  in  Portland,"  went  on  that  child- 
like young  person,  who  knew  how  the  Dragon  dreaded 
the-  appaling  pile  of  baggage  which  goes  to  fourteen 
damsels  for  a  month's  absence,  even  though  limited  to 
one  trunk  each. 

"Well,"    said    she,   somewhat    mollified,    "but   you 


BY  OLIVE  THORNE  MILLER.  395 

really  must  be  careful,  Clip.  You  know  a  party  like 
ours  attracts  attention." 

"  Oh,  I'm  a  model  of  discretion,"  said  Clip.  "  The 
captain  said  I  might  sit  next  to  him  at  the  dinner-table, 
and  he  would  take  care  of  me." 

"  Oh  ! "  groaned  the  Dragon,  "  you  are  incorrigible." 

The  next  morning  found  the  steamer  settled  in  her 
dock  in  Portland,  and  the  question  of  reaching  the 
railway  station  became  important.  It  was  a  mile  dis- 
tant, and  the  girls  wished  to  walk.  The  engineer,  a 
genuine  New-Englander  and  a  gentleman,  offered  to 
show  them  the  way,  and  the  Dragon  said  she  would 
take  a  hack  and  some  of  the  hand  baggage,  while  the 
trunks  went  ahead  on  a  truck. 

A  hack  was  hired  to  take  one  passenger  and  as 
much  baggage  as  she  chose.  The  hackmen  seemed  a 
jolly  set  of  men  :  every  face  was  on  a  broad  grin  as  the 
satchels  and  boxes  and  baskets  went  in  through  the 
windows  on  both  sides,  before,  behind,  under,  and  over 
the  solitary  passenger.  When  she  was  well  buried, 
and  each  girl  had  but  one  or  two  packages,  which  she 
was  ashamed  to  add  to  the  load,  the  procession  moved 
off,  and  the  horses  started.  At  the  first  corner  the 
driver  leaned  over  to  his  passenger.  "  We  may  as  well 
hev  the  rest  o'  them  things,"  said  he,  smiling. 

"  So  we  may,"  assented  the  victim,  from  under  her 
mountain.  He  stopped.  She  called,  "  Girls,  we  want 
the  rest  of  the  baggage." 

Nothing  loath,  they  surrounded  the  hack  as  flies  a 
molasses  cup.  Every  one  emptied  her  hands,  and 
followed  the  engineer,  who  carried  himself  with  the 
dignity  of  a  professor  at  the  head  of  a  boarding-school. 

*'  Here,  Jim,"  shouted  the  hack-driver,  as  they  drew 
up  at  the  station,  "help  the  lady  out  with  her 
satchel." 

"Jim  "  came  up  to  the  door  of  the  hack.  First  he 
stared,  and  then  grinned,  and  so  did  everybody  who 
saw  that  curious  load.  The  driver  and  the  porter, 
stimulated  by  sundry  small  coins,  gayly  carried  in  the 
things,  and  piled  them  on  one  of  the  long  station 
benches,  which  they  completely  filled. 

A  horrified  Maine  woman  sat  in  the  station.  "  Is 
that  all  with  one  family?"  she  whispered,  in  a  stage 
"  aside,"  to  the  woman  sweeping  out. 


396  THE  GIRLS1  SKETCHING  CAMP. 

"  All  with  one  lady,"  was  the  annihilating  reply,  and 
the  questioner  subsided,  absolutely  struck  dumb. 

The  next  moment  the  girls  came  in,  laughing  and 
talking,  in  high  spirits.  The  "Orderly  " — so  called  by 
way  of  contraries — who  had  an  outside  pocket,  rattled 
the  whole  fifteen  checks  in  it,  and  looked  for  a  bag- 
gage-man, while  the  rest  inquired  about  trains  and 
bought  their  tickets,  and  a  restaurant-man,  whose  door 
opened  into  the  waiting-room,  disappeared  in  some  ob- 
scure corner,  and  in  a  twinkling  hung  out  a  sign,  "  Ice- 
Cream." 

When  they  entered  the  train,  they  occupied  nearly 
every  seat  on  one  side  of  the  car.  Clip  and  the  D.  D. 
were  in  the  first,  Peggy  in  the  second,  and  the  Dragon 
third.  This  arrangement  rather  put  Clip  on  the  lead, 
which  she  was  nothing  loath  to  assume,  and  the  conse- 
quence was  a  succession  of  pranks,  in  which  she 
readily  persuaded  the  whole  line  to  join,  always,  of 
course,  excepting  the  Dragon,  who,  whenever  she 
could  bring  her  face  to  the  proper  degree  of  sternness, 
tried  her  best  to  preserve  dignity. 

Inspired  by  the  sight  of  Clip's  round  eyeglasses, 
which  gave  her  the  look  of  an  owl  with  an  inquiring 
mind,  and  desiring  above  everything  to  pass  for  a 
Boston  school,  they  all  put  on  glasses — near-sighted 
glasses,  gray  beach  glasses,  and  one  pair,  large  and 
round  and  very  dark-colored,  that  gave  the  wearer  the 
appearance  of  a  new  species  of  insect.  Then  thrust- 
ing their  heads  out  of  the  windows,  they  faced  the 
people  hurrying  by  to  the  train.  First  respect,  and 
then  amusement,  was  seen  in  every  face. 

"  Here  comes  a  howling  swell,"  whispered  Clip, 
suddenly,  "  the  last  we  shall  see  for  a  month." 

In  an  instant  every  head  was  out,  and  that  young 
man  fairly  quailed  before  the  battery  of  glasses. 

The  next  joke  was  suggested  by  the  advent  of  the 
conductor  who  was  a  little  more  imposing  than  ordi- 
nary officials  of  his  degree.  A  whisper  ran  down  the 
line,  and  every  girl  on  that  side,  as  he  solemnly 
punched  her  ticket,  asked  him  earnestly,  "  What  time 
do  we  get  to  Steep  Falls  ?  " 

He  answered  the  first,  "  We  call  every  station  "  ; 
the  second,  "  In  about  an  hour."  At  the  third  he 
stared,  for  the  station  was  exceedingly  insignificant, 


BY  OLIVE  THORNE  MILLER.  397 

and  a  passenger  rarely  stopped  there.  At  the  fourth 
he  began  to  suspect  a  joke,  and  relapsed  into  grim 
silence,  without  the  ghost  of  a  smile. 

That  car-load  was  curiously  divided  :  on  one  side  a 
party  who  felt  they  were  out  of  the  world,  as  it  were, 
and  could  do  as  they  pleased,  and  on  the  other,  people 
on  the  way  to  a  camp-meeting  at  Lake  Sebago.  A! 
first  these  people  were  very  stern,  but  they  soon 
entered  into  the  fun  of  the  thing,  and  were  almost  as 
jolly  as  the  girls  when  they  left  the  train  at  the 
lake. 

Now  that  Clip  had  started  the  fun,  the  sober  girls 
caught  the  spirit.  Clip  was  taken  at  her  word  as  a 
guide-book,  and  questions  about  stations,  and  time- 
tables, and  so  forth  were  showered  on  her,  one  girl  fol- 
lowing another,  till  she  rebelled,  and  told  the  next  one 
who  came  to  take  her  seat  like  a  good  little  girl,  and 
she  would  know  in  due  time. 

The  Portland  and  Ogdensburg  Railroad  runs 
through  a  country  of  wonderful  beauty,  and  jokes  were 
forgotten  as  they  whisked  past  charming  woods,  dis- 
tant mountains,  and  that  most  lovely  of  lakes,  Sebago, 
with  its  beautiful  shores. 

On  the  platform  at  the  station  where  they  left  the 
train  stood  one  man,  a  smiling  farmer — Mr.  Duncan — 
and  drawn  up  beside  it  were  several  indescribable 
superannuated  vehicles  to  convey  the  party  to  his 
house,  seven  miles  back  in  the  country.  Now  they 
could  find  out  about  their  future  home,  and  as  soon  as 
they  were  started,  Clip  began  on  the  driver,  a  sharp 
Maine  farmer,  who  drove  his  own  "  team,"  and,  in 
the  language  of  the  country,  "  was  nobody's  fool." 

"What  sort  of  a  place  is  Duncan's  ?  "  she  began. 

"  It's  a  nice  tidy  farm-house  up  on  the  mountain," 
he  replied. 

"  Well,"  went  on  Clip,  "  do  you  cook  your  corn  on 
the  cob  out  here  ? " 

"  I  believe  they  do,"  said  the  driver ;  "  leastways  I 
gen'rally  hev  mine  so." 

"  It'll  have  to  be  cut  off  for  me,"  said  Clip,  "  I've 
lost  all  my  front  teeth." 

"  Du  tell !  "  said  the  driver  ;  I  shouldn't  hev  thought 
it,  from  your  age." 

"  How  old  do  you  take  me  to  be  ?  " 


398  THE  GIRLS1  SKETCHING  CAMP. 

"  Wa'al,  fourteen  or  so,  I  jedge." 

"  And  you  a  Yankee  !      How  do  you  judge  ? " 

"  By  your  talk,  mostly,"  said  the  man  quietly. 

The  load  laughed,  and  thought  Clip  had  the  worst 
that  time.  She  was  not  silent  long. 

"  Do  you  have  surf  bathing  up  here  ? "  came 
next. 

"  Wa'al,  no — not  on  the  mountains,"  said  the 
man. 

"  Why,  all  we  girls  have  brought  bathing  suits," 
cried  Clip,  "  and  we  expect  of  course  to  bathe." 

"  Wa'al,  you  might  find  a  spring  or  so  up  to  Dun- 
can's, and  there's  wells  all  around,"  he  answered. 

'  Are  there  any  young  gentlemen  up  here  ?  "  asked 
Cl  p,  after  a  pause. 

'  Not  one." 

'  Any  girls  ?  " 

'  Plenty." 

'Why's  that,  I'd  like  to  know  ?  " 

'  Wa'al,  as  soon  as  a  boy  can  walk,  up  here,  he 
walks  away  from  Maine." 

"  What  a  dreadful  country  it  must  be  ! "  said  Clip. 
"  Not  that  we  care,"  she  hastened  to  add.  "  We've 
left  New  York  to  get  rid  of  society  and  gentlemen's 
attentions.  We're  suffering  for  a  rest."  So  she  went 
on  all  the  way. 

Meanwhile,  the  horses  were  climbing  the  hills, 
which  they  did  on  a  gallop,  by-the-way,  and  they  were 
passing  through  a  delightful  country — woods,  glimpses 
of  mountains  and  lakes,  and  everywhere  a  display  of 
rich  summer  colors  that  almost  set  them  wild.  The 
farms  themselves  seemed  not  more  than  half  redeemed 
from  wlldness.  Everywhere  nature  encroached  upon 
art ;  ferns  fringed  the  roads,  wildwoodsy  things  stole 
into  the  fence  corners,  green  mosses  covered  the 
rough  log  watering-trough  beside  the  road  ;  even  the 
fences  were  the  fantastic  roots  of  giant  trees,  bleached 
by  sun  and  storm  to  dazzling  whiteness. 

At  last  they  stopped  before  a  broad  old-fashioned 
house,  its  paint  washed  off  by  the  storms  of  many 
winters,  and  "  ^Etna "  nailed  over  the  door  like  a 
charm. 

A  motherly-looking  gray-haired  woman  appeared  at 
the  open  door.  The  laughing  load  seemed  to  stun  her. 


BY  OLIVE  THORNE  MILLER.  399 

Doubtless  her  heart  sank  like  lead  as  the  possibilities 
of  the  charge  she  had  assumed  came  over  her.  She 
said,  helplessly,  "  Is — is  Miss here  ?  " 

Miss was  the  sweet-faced  Nun,  and  she  was 

there. 

"  We  feel  acquainted  with  Miss ,"  said  the 

hostess,  apologetically,  after  the  party  had  been  intro- 
duced, and  she  found  them  not  quite  so  wild  as  she 
had  feared. 

The  house  was  on  the  side  of  a  mountain,  and  in 
mist  or  fog  the  whole  grand  scene  from  its  front  door, 
of  mountains,  woods,  and  lakes,  was  blotted  out,  so 
that  it  gave  the  effect  of  being  at  the  end  of  the  world, 
the  veritable  "  jumping-off  place." 

The  farm-house  was  not  large,  and  its  resources 
were  pieced  out  by  a  small  rough  carpenter-shop  in 
the  orchard,  which  was  fitted  up  as  an  outlying  cottage, 
and  which  gave  the  party  just  the  touch  of  camping 
out  that  they  desired.  It  had  been  made  fresh  and 
sweet  inside  by  an  entire  ceiling  of  new  pine  boards, 
odorous  as  the  woods  themselves,  while  the  outside, 
guiltless  of  paint,  retained  the  rich  tints  which  years 
of  sun  and  storm  had  given  it.  It  held  the  usual 
quantity  of  bare  bedroom  furniture  of  a  farm-house, 
and  it  was  intended  to  accommodate  five  girls. 

The  Nun,  Clip,  Peggy,  the  Orderly,  and  D.  D.— the 
madcaps  and  the  mischiefs  of  the  party — pounced 
upon  this  delicious  retreat  at  once,  and  claimed  it  for 
their  own,  proceeding  forthwith  to  make  it  into  a  home. 
From  the  five  trunks  came  as  many  treasures  as  from 
the  magical  bag  of  the  house-mother  in  the  Swiss 
Family  Robinson — curtains  to  partition  off  the  bed- 
room, gay  table-cover,  dainty  vases,  and  colored  glass 
dishes,  and  a  tiny  clock,  which  gave  the  room  an  air 
of  refinement  at  once.  Before  an  hour,  ground-pine 
and  clematis  decorated  the  walls,  ferns  and  golden-rod 
nodded  over  the  glass,  trailing  vines  and  sweet  woodsy 
things  filled  the  vases.  The  sun  came  in  at  the  door, 
and  good  Mr.  Duncan  brought  a  piece  of  old  sail- 
cloth and  put  it  up  with  poles  and  crotched  sticks  for 
an  awning. 

The  whole  was  charming,  and  a  name  was  sought. 
Many  were  suggested,  and  at  last  the  happy  thought 
came. 


40O  THE  GIRLS'  SKETCHING  CAMP. 

"  It's  the  Larks'  Nest,"  said  Clip,  suddenly,  "  and 
I'll  do  my  best  to  make  it  deserve  its  name." 

She  was  as  good  as  her  word,  the  Larks'  Nest  it 
was;  and  sundry  sounds  of  girlish  revelry  that  some- 
times reached  the  house — christened  by  the  steady 
ones  in  it  the  Bee-Hive — after  the  "  bees "  were  in 
bed,  proved  that  "  larks  "  were  really  there. 

The  first  dash  into  country  wildness  and  freedom 
came  before  they  had  been  at  Duncan's  an  hour, 
in  the  shape  of  a  laughing  invitation  from  the  far- 
mer to  take  a  ride  upon  a  load  of  hay  which  was 
about  to  start  for  a  barn  half  a  mile  away.  Nothing 
was  farther  from  his  thoughts  than  that  the  city  young 
ladies  would  accept  the  offer,  and  his  face  was  a  study 
of  amazement  as  the  girls,  with  a  rapturous  "  Oh,  may 
we  ? "  rushed  for  the  wagon,  gayly  mounted-the  wheels, 
and  to  the  top  of  the  low  load  in  a  minute,  while  the 
oxen  started  off  for  the  trip.  At  the  end  of  the  ride 
they  divided  into  two  parties  to  examine  their  sur- 
roundings. One  squad  explored  the  mountain  on  the 
side  of  which  the  farm-house  stood,  and  from  the  top 
looked  upon*  a  scene  too  grand  and  too  wide  for  their 
brushes;  while  the  other  went  through  the  orchard  to 
a  set  of  bars  where  they  could  step  at  once  from  the 
farm  into  a  bit  of  genuine  wilderness,  noble  old  woods 
on  which  the  hands  of  man  had  left  no  trace. 

To  fourteen  wandering  damsels  the  arrival  of  the 
mail  was  the  important  event  of  the  day.  The  post- 
office  was  a  mile  away  through  the  woods,  but  never 
was  a  day  so  stormy  or  so  warm  that  there  were  not 
volunteers  to  take  the  tramp,  while  on  pleasant 
days  the  whole  party  would  go.  Mail  began  to  pour 
into  that  quiet  office  in  a  way  to  astonish  the  sleepy 
postmistress.  Letters,  sometimes  thirty  at  once,  with 
papers,  magazines,  and  packages  of  all  sorts,  from 
boxes  of  rose-buds,  and  candy,  to  extra  clothing  and 
artists'  materials. 

Life  had  quickly  settled  into  regularity.  Every 
morning  sketch-books  and  easels,  paint-boxes  and 
palettes,  came  out ;  the  girls  broke  up  into  groups  of 
two  or  three,  and  started  out  in  various  ways  to  work. 
Not  a  picturesque  spot  but  had  sketchers  encamped 
about  it :  a  dilapidated  set  of  bars,  the  scorn  of  cows 
but  the  delight  of  an  artist ,  a  pile  of  rocks  in  an 


BY  OLIVE   THORNE  MILLER. 


401 


orchard,  the  thorn  in  the  flesh  to  a  farmer,  who  stared 
open-eyed  to  find  it  attractive  to  somebody ;  a  path 
through  the  woods ;  or  a  luxuriant  group  of  tall  ferns. 
The  neighborhood  was  an  unworked  mine  of  wealth. 
One  could  not  turn  in  any  direction  without  seeing  a 
charming  spot  that  she  longed  to  carry  away  with  her, 
and  the  only  regret  of  the  enthusiastic  students  was 
that  each  one  had  not  two  pairs  of  hands  to  work  with. 
Dinner  brought  them  all  home,  and  then  came 
criticism,  comparison,  and  much  pleasant  talk  over 
canvas  and  paper,  ending — in  the  Larks'  Nest — in 
nailing  the  studies  to  the  wall,  and  making  ready  for 
the  next  day's  work. 

Before  long  some  of  the  daily  needs  of  girlish 
humanity  became  pressing,  and  a  party  was  made  up 
to  visit  the  "store  "  of  the  neighborhood — a  barn-like 
place,  with  drugs  and  dress  goods,  hardware  and  gro- 
ceries, all  in  one  room. 

"  Have  you  straw  hats  ? "  asked  the  first  girl. 

The  clerk  was  sorry,  but  they  were  out  of  hats. 

"  What !  no  hats?  "  in  a  chorus  from  the  party  who 
had  been  .  seized  with  an  ambition  for  broad-rim 
hats.  - 

"  I  should  like  some  shoe-buttons,"  began  the 
second. 

These,  alas,  they  never  kept. 

"  What !  no  shoe-buttons  ?  "  in  one  breath  again. 

"  Please  show  me  some  ribbons,"  spoke  up  the 
third. 

The  clerk  regretted  to  say  that  ribbons  were  not  in 
the  stock. 

"  What !  no  ribbons  ?  "  cried  the  chorus  in  dismay. 

"  Writing-paper,  if  you  please,  cried  the  fourth, 
sure  that  she  at  least  could  supply  her  wants. 

The  clerk  was  embarrassed.  He  began  to  have  a 
horror  of  the  chorus,  and  hesitated  whether  he  had 
better  slip  out  of  a  back  door  and  let  his  inquisitors 
find  out  for  themselves  his  stock,  or  whether  he  had 
better  laugh.  He  decided  on  the  latter  just  in  time, 
for  Peggy  began  : 

"  I  want  some  rye  flour  for  sunburn." 

The  man  shook  his  head. 

"  What !  no  rye  flour  ?  " 

Clip  had  been  looking  about,  and  seeing  potatoes,  a 
26 


4O2  THE  GIRLS'  SKETCHING  CAMP. 

thought  struck  her.  "  I  say,  girls,"  she  began,  in 
eager  whispers,  "  now  we're  out  here  in  the  woods, 
and  no  callers,  we  might  cat — onions  /" 

"  Onions  !  onions  !  "  whispered  one  and  another. 
"  Delightful !  so  we  will  !  " 

"  I  love  onions,"  cried  Clip ;  and  turning  to  the 
amused  shopkeeper,  added,  "  Please  send  us  up  a 
bushel." 

The  man  laughed,  but  again  he  shook  his  head. 

"  What !  no  onions  ?  Oh  !  "  and  thoroughly  dis- 
gusted with  the  country  store,  the  party  went  out  in 
search  of  another.  After  that,  whenever  in  their 
rambles,  which  extended  for  many  miles  around,  they 
came  near  to  a  store  they  invariably  went  in  and  asked 
for  thohe  articles,  expressing  their  surprise  in  cho- 
rus as  at  first,  and  always  ending  with  the  demand  for 
onions,  which,  by-the-way,  they  were  never  able  to  get 
in  that  Jand  of  farms  and  gardens,  though  Mrs.  Dun- 
can offered  to  send  to  Portland  for  them. 

One  night  the  Larks  had  a  fright.  To  begin  with, 
Peggy,  Clip,  and  D.D.  had  not  only  the  ordinary  home 
correspondence  to  attend  to,  but  each  of  them  wore  a 
significant  ring,  and  each  had  many  letters  to  write  to 
what  Clip  called  "  the  beloved  object."  One  night, 
therefore,  they  sat  around  the  table  engaged  in  this 
occupation.  Nun  and  Orderly  were  in  bed,  and,  in  a 
sleepy  way,  exchanged  opinions  on  the  subject. 

"  I'll  never  be  engaged,"  began  the  Nun. 

"Nor  I,"  responded  the  Orderly;  "it's  too  much 
bother." 

The  "  engaged  "  Larks  made  some  saucy  speeches 
back,  and  at  a  late  hour,  having  finished  their  letters, 
started  for  bed,  when  they  made  the  unpleasant  dis- 
covery that  the  water  jugs  were  empty,  and  there  was 
never  time  to  fill  them  in  the  morning.  Now  the 
water  in  that  beautiful  spot,  with  thirteen  lakes  and 
ponds  in  sight,  had  to  be  brought  in  a  barrel,  and  was 
then  placed  in  the  wood-shed,  which,  according  to 
Maine  fashion,  formed  a  connecting  link  between  the 
house  and  barn. 

The  three  girls  started  out  in  the  dark,  the  way  be- 
ing straight  and  familiar,  but  before  they  reached  the 
gate,  they  were  startled  by  a  rustle  in  the  bushes,  on 
one  side,  and  a  sort  of  choked  breathing.  As  three 


BY  OLIVE  THOKNE  MILLER.  403 

souls  with  but  a  single  thought,  they  turned  and  fled  to 
the  Nest — not  to  give  it  up,  but  to  prepare  for  war. 
They  girded  on  their  armor.  D.  D.  took  her  pistol — a 
savage  sUver-lrimraed  weapon,  the  scorn  of  brothers  ; 
Clip  armed  herself  with  the  big  dinner  horn,  which 
Mrs.  Duncan  had  provided  in  case  of  illness  or  alarm 
in  the  Larks'  Nest ;  and  Peggy,  like  a  sensible  soul, 
took  the  lamp.  They  sallied  out,  and  a  queer  pro- 
cession they  made,  with  long,  straggling  shadows 
thrown  by  the  lamp,  enough  to  frighten  any  ordinary 
ghost  out  of  his  wits.  This  was  probably  the  case,  for 
they  saw  nothing,  and  having  filled  their  pitchers, 
went  back  to  bed. 

But  sleep  was  not  to  be  won  yet.  They  were  seized 
with  a  fit  of  punning  worse  than  usual,  which  was  say- 
ing much  for  it.  For  an  hour  these  five  Larks  wasted 
their  breath  in  this  way,  and  then  gradually  became 
quiet.  Not  for  long,  however.  Soon  the  sweet  strains 
of  music  breathed  through  a  comb  arose  in  the  Nest. 
Everybody  roused  up.  There  sat  Peggy  on  the  side  of 
the  bed  treating  her  sisters  to  an  air  from  Fatinitza. 
As  one  girl  they  descended  upon  her,  and  despoiled 
her  of  her  instrument. 

She  was  not  discouraged.  Peggy  rarely  was.  She 
raised  her  voice  in  the  classic  strains  of  "  Wrass'lin 
Jacob,"  and  then  "  Swing  low,  sweet  chariot,"  with  the 
genuine  negro  twang.  Inquiring  into  this  entertain- 
ment, the  Larks  discovered  that  she  had  an  aching 
tooth,  and  that  was  her  peculiar  way  of  insisting  on 
sympathy.  They  ransacked  their  stores,  and  at  last 
quieted  her  nerves  with  a  dose  of — siccatif,  and  once 
more  settled  themselves  to  sleep. 

The  days  were  passed  mostly  in  work,  making 
sketches  in  the  beautiful  country  about  them,  but  the 
evenings  were  given  to  play  and  entertainments  of 
various  sorts.  One  that  made  a  merry  evening  was  a 
fancy-dress  party,  where  being  without  fear  of  Mrs. 
Grundy  or  "gentlemen  spectators,"  and  with  resources 
limited  to  the  contents  of  their  trunks,  the  costumes 
were  capital.  The  Marquis  de  Lafayette  in  blue 
trousers  (of  a  bathing  suit),  elegant  light  drab  cut- 
away coat,  with  the  long  tails  now  worn  on  ladies' 
basques,  lined  with  scarlet  satin,  laces  and  stock  of  the 
most  formidable  dimensions  ;  a  "  swell  "  of  the  "  swell- 


404  THE  GIRLS'  SKETCHING  CAMP. 

est"  description,  similarly  gotten  up;  an  African 
"mammy"  as  nurse,  with  immense  silver  spectacles, 
and  face  well  painted,  carrying  a  delicate  baby  in  long 
white  dress  (the  smallest  and  lightest  of  the  party) ;  a 
Highlander  with  kilt  of  a  plaid  shawl ;  a  fish  girl  cry- 
ing her  wares,  which  were  sticks  of  candy  on  a 
stretcher. 

Another  was  a  literary  and  musical  entertainment 
given  by  the  "Bees"  to  the  Larks,  where  the  Peake 
Sisters  in  immense  steeple  hats  and  Quaker  dress  sang 
hymns  and  offered  refreshments  from  bandboxes  and 
pillow-case  bags,  and  where  was  read  with  great  ap- 
plause an  original  "  pome  "  of  the  acrostic  order,  of 
which  a  specimen  verse  or  two  will  serve  to  show  the 
literary  merit. 

"  J  is  for  jolly ;  the  word  will  explain 
Our  usual  condition  since  we've  been  in  Maine. 
Forgotten  all  rules  of  formal  propriety, 
We  revel  in  nonsense  of  every  variety. 

"  L  for  the  Larks,  fine,  amiable  birds  ; 
They  remind  you  of  geese,  but  they're  wise  as  owls, 
They  live  in  a  state  of  remarkable  unity, 
And  I  promise  you  they  are  a  lively  community. 

Every  entertainment,  of  whatever  nature,  was  sure 
to  end  with  the  "  Hindoo  Dance,"  a  great  favorite,  and 
an  indescribably  funny  thing,  for  which,  after  one  or 
two  trials,  Mr.  Duncan  kindly  prepared  by  putting 
props  under  the  parlor  floor. 

One  cloud  from  the  outside  world,  the  domain 
of  the  proprieties,  still  hung  over  their  horizon. 
It  was  a  party  of  "  Boston  school-ma'ams,"  who  were 
spending  their  summer  at  a  neighboring  farm-house. 
These  young  women  never  rode  in  carts,  nor  blew 
horns,  nor  roused  the  country  generally.  They  con- 
ducted themselves  in  the  most  proper  manner,  and 
were  supposed  to  be  models  of  culture.  At  every  un- 
conventional deed — a  ride  on  a  hay  wagon,  a  wade 
after  water-lilies,  a  foot-race  through  the  woods — the 
first  thought  was  "  What  do  you  suppose  the  B.  S.  M.'s 
would  say  to  that  ?  " 

Through  much  talking  these  innocent  persons  grew 
to  be  quite  a  bugaboo,  the  one  crumpled  rose  leaf 


BY  OLIVE  THORNE  MILLER.  405 

-.\hich  took  from  the  perfection  of  their  present  life. 
At  last  even  this  faint  cloud  was  to  be  removed.  One 
evening  Jie  d.eaded  B.  S.  M.'s  came  in  solemn  array, 
in  best  "  Sunday-go-to-meeting  "  clothes,  to  call  on  the 
New  York  students.  Great  was  the  fall  from  the  ideal 
pedestals  on  which  they  had  been  placed  by  the  magic 
of  a  name.  They  proved — well,  to  be  quite  harmless ; 
and  henceforth  the  girls  troubled  themselves  no  more, 
but  sang  and  shouted,  and  enjoyed  themselves  as 
seemed  to  them  good. 

The  last  week  of  this  delightful  month  dawned,  and 
the  girls,  realizing  that  their  fun  was  nearly  over, 
roused  themselves  in  earnest  to  the  duty  of  getting  as 
much  as  possible  into  that  short  six  days.  One  day 
most  of  the  party  went  off  on  a  picnic  in  a  hay-cart, 
though  poor  D.  D.  staid  in  bed  with  the  toothache'which 
puffed  her  face  to  twice  its  usual  size.  She  did  not 
hesitate  to  sacrifice  her  comfort  to  her  art,  however, 
for  when  bolstered  up,  holding  a  big  bowl  of  ginger  tea, 
which  kind  Mrs.  Duncan  had  brewed  and  sent  out  to 
her,  and  which,  much  against  her  inclination,  she  felt 
obliged  to  drink,  she  turned  to  the  waiting  messenger, 
saying,  plaintively,  *'  Must  I  take  it  all  ?  'r  a  picture  of 
herself  suddenly  rose  in  her  mind,  and  she  turned  to 
Peggy,  the  rapid  sketchier,  with  "  Peggy,  wouldn't  this 
make  a  good  pose  ?  " 

"  Capital !  "  cried  Peggy;  "don't  stir."  And  in  two 
minutes  she  was  down  in  black  and  white — "The 
Swell  D.  D.,"  as  the  girls  called  her. 

And  now,  to  crown  their  precious  last  days,  arrived 
the  Master,  to  overlook  their  work,  and  accompany 
them  home.  This  gentleman — a  well-known  New 
York  artist — has  the  fortune  or  misfortune  (whichever 
it  may  be  thought),  to  look  extremely  young  ;  so  be- 
fore he  arrived  he  was  dubbed  the  "Old  Master,"  and 
by  that  name  he  shall  be  known  in  this  "  ower-true  tale." 
He  was  charmed  with  the  scenery,  the  air,  and,  above 
all,  the  Lark's  Nest,  which  he  declared  he  should  like 
to  transport  to  New  York  just  as  it  was. 

Now  every  day  had  its  expedition,  of  which  the  best 
was  a  sail  the  length  of  Lake  Sebago,  and  up  what  the 
local  guide-book  called  "  the  sweetly  sinuous  Songo." 
Sweetly  sinuous  they  found  it,  and  shallow  as  well. 
While  they  were  assiduously  cultivating  the  sentiments 


406  THE  GIRLS'  SKETCHING  CAMP. 

proper  to  the  occasion,  Clip  forgetting  to  joke,  and 
Peggy  to  pun,  the  Old  Master  reading  aloud  Longfel- 
low's poem  of  the  Songo  River,  and  the  captain  point- 
ing out  the  attractions — Peaked  Mountain,  Rattle- 
snake Mountain,  One-tree  Island,  a  cave  much  fre- 
quented by  Hawthorne  in  his  strange,  solitary  boy- 
hood— suddenly  they  found  themselves  aground.  It 
was  not  to  be  wondered  at,  for  the  channel  was  but 
two  feet  six  inches  deep,  while  the  steamer  drew  two 
feet  two  inches  of  water. 

While  they  were  looking  about  for  help,  and  two 
men  with  long  poles  were  trying  to  push  them  off,  a 
man  appeared  driving  out  from  the  shore  to  their 
assistance — a  pair  of  horses  ! 

The  Old  Master,  falling  from  the  heights  of  poetry  to 
this  ridiculous  accident,  was  equal  to  the  occasion. 
Assuming  the  gruff,  authoritative  tones  of  a  stage  cap- 
tain, he  ordered,  "Throw  a  line  over  one  of  those 
piles,  and  haul  her  up  into  the  wind's  eye." 

The  captain  looked  around,  smiled  as  at  child's 
play,  and  said,  quietly,  "  She'll  get  along  fust-rate  with 
just  shovin'."  Then  turning  to  the  man  in  the  water,  he 
added,  "Just  shove  her  off  at  the  stern,  will  you,  Jim  ? " 

Jim  shoved,  and  the  passengers  looked  over  the  rail 
at  the  absurd  sight  of  two  men  pushing  a  big  steamer 
off  the  bar.  But  it  was  done,  and  they  went  on,  windj 
ing  in  and  out,  and  meeting  and  overtaking  hundreds 
of  turtles  on  the  same  journey,  of  which  Clip,  who  was 
making  a  map  of  the  river,  kept  a  record.  One  of 
them,  of  somewhat  large  size,  swam  in  front  of  the 
steamer,  and  with  the  late  disaster  fresh  in  their 
minds,  they  pushed  him  away  with  a  pole,  lest  they 
should  get  aground  on  him.  They  went  on  through  a 
lock,  when  they  left  the  steamer,  and  went  up  a  flight 
of  stairs  to  another  and  sinalkr  one;  through  Naples 
Bay ;  past  a  veritable  Rudder  Grange  where  they 
looked  almost  hopefully  for  Pomona  and  the  Boarder ; 
in  sight  of  the  home  of  Artemus  Ward  ;  to  the  village 
where  a  wagon  was  to  meet  them  for  the  ride  home. 

Here  the  Old  Master — who,  though  he  lived  in  the 
"  Hive,"  proved  to  be  as  larky  as  the  Larks  themselves 
— provided  the  party  with  tin  horns,  and  they  started  on 
their  long  moonlight  drive.  Of  that  ride  home,  the 


BY  OLIVE  THORN E  MILLER.  407 

serenades  to  the  villagers,  the  comb  arias,  the  horn 
solos,  the  opera  and  oratorio  airs,  the  college  and 
Moody  and  Sankey  songs — the  fun  generally — any  de- 
scription would  be  weak. 

The  next  night  the  Larks  distinguished  themselves 
by  a  serenade  to  the  Old  Master.  With  combs  and 
horns  and  voices  they  softly  rendered  under  his  win- 
dow airs  which  they  thought  suitable  to  the  situation  : 
"I  dreamt  that  I  dwelt  in  marble  halls,"  (appropriate 
by  contrast),  and  still  more  significant,,  "  Douglas, 
Douglas,  tender  and  true,"  winding  up  with  "  Fare- 
well, my  own." 

The  listener,  behind  his  screen  of  vines,  appreciated 
and  enjoyed,  and  repaid  them  with  soft  applause, 
which  disturbed  no  one,  and  the  Bees  slept  calmly  in 
their  cells  through  the  whole. 

The  day  before  the  last  one  had  been  set  apart  from 
the  beginning  for  a  grand  exhibition  in  the  Larks' 
Nest  to  the  country  people  who  had  shown  such  a 
kindly  interest  in  the  party.  Everything  else  had  been 
done ;  picnics,  water-lily  gathering,  rowing,  wading, 
blueb'n  (in  the  language  of  the  natives),  frogging,  barn 
frolicking,  and  so  forth.  The  wind  up  was  to  be  a 
fitting  conclusion  to  a  perfect  month. 

Early  in  the  morning  the  Larks  began  preparations. 
The  beams  of  the  nest  were  decorated  with  wheat, 
oats,  ground-pine,  and  red  berries  ;  the  curtains  before 
the  beds,  as  the  place  of  honor,  were  given  to  four 
large  photographs  of  the  O.  M.'s  successful  paintings 
in  late  exhibitions ;  and  the  rest  of  the  walls  were  com- 
pletely covered  from  floor  to  roof  with  the  work  of  the 
girls,  for  notwithstanding  all  their  fun,  work  had  gone 
steadily  on  from  day  to  day.  Sketches  iw  oil  and 
water-color,  distemper,  charcoal,  sepia,  pencil,  and  pen 
and  ink,  set  off  with  snowy  thistle  puffs,  ferns,  colored 
leaves,  birds'  nests  in  twigs  and  branches,  long  sprays 
of  clematis,  and  running  evergreen.  One  of  the 
most  effective  things  was  a  curtain  of  unbleached  mus- 
lin  on  which  was  a  group — the  heads  of  the  five  Larks 
— as  silhouettes,  of  which  Clip  said  that  when  the 
Larks  got  their  heads  together,  something  was  sure  to 
come  of  it. 

Clip,  who  wore  at  her  girdle  an  imposing  note-book 
and  pencil,  and  was  called  the  "Historian,"  was 


408  THE  GIRLS'  SKETCHING  CAMP. 

appointed  to  receive  the  guests.  When  their  arrival 
was  announced,  she  went  up  to  the  house,  where  she 
found  a  dozen  or  more  sheepish-looking  men  and 
boys  around  the  door,  talking  to  Mr.  Duncan  about 
pigs  and  stock,  and  the  crops.  In  the  parlor  she 
found  perhaps  twenty  women  sitting  around  the  wall 
in  Sunday  clothes,  not  knowing  exactly  what  to  do 
with  themselves.  She  invited  them  out,  and  took  the 
head  of  the  procession. 

The  nest  was,  clear  of  furniture,  about  fifteen  feet 
square,  and  it  had  fifty  or  sixty  guests — a  regular 
crush.  Their  comments  were  amusing.  "  My  gorry  '"' 
(the  Maine  oath),  "can't  they  paint!"  was  the  first 
criticism  of  an  honest  old  farmer,  inspired  probably 
by  quantity  rather  than  quality. 

"  Wa'al,  wa'al,  this  is  really  quite  a  show  !  "  said 
another. 

"  That's  a  sunset  glow — ain't  it  nice  !  "  said  an  old 
lady,  poking  her  parasol  into  a  ten-minute  sketch  of  a 
gorgeous  sunset. 

"That's  awful  pretty!"  and,  "When  that's  finished 
it'll  look  nice,"  were  common  criticisms. 

One  old  lady  was  not  in  the  least  awed.  "  My  Ed 
has  done  them  things  by  yards  and  yards,"  she  said 
to  a  companion,  who  only  opened  her  lips  to  say, 
"  Yes,  yes,  yes." 

lt  Seems  to  me  that  looks  sort  o'  nateral,  but  I  can't 
quite  make  it  out,"  said  one  of  a  sketch  very  hasty  and 
quite  in  the  "  impressionist  "  style. 

One  old  mother  was  more  interested  in  the  exhibi- 
tors. She  turned  to  the  O.  M.  "  Air  you  really 
teacher  o'  them  girls,  and  how  old  be  you  ?  " 

"  You  call  that  a  dog  ?  "  scoffingly  said  a  boy  who 
had  been  brought  in  to  admire  the  portrait  of  the 
family  dog  ;  "  I  wouldn't  'a  known  what  it  was  :  it 
looks  like  a  pig." 

The  exhibition  was  over;  the  guests  went  home; 
the  girls  felt  that  the  show  was  ended,  the  curtain 
about  to  drop.  In  silence  each  camper  took  down 
her  sketches,  dragged  her  trunk  out,  and  began  to 
pack. 

At  noon  the  next  day  the  party  stood  on  the  plat' 
form  of  the  station  at  Steep  Falls,  ready  for  the 


BY  OLIVE  THORNE  MILLER.  409 

train.  Suddenly  the  O.  M.  appeared  on  the  scene,  his 
face  beaming  with  fun  and  mischief.  He  had  discov- 
ered in  a  corner  of  the  waiting-room  a  bass  drum  almost 
as  big  as  he  was,  and  he  shouldered  it.  He  stepped 
on  to  the  platform  ;  he  called  for  recruits. 

'•  Let's  go  out  with  dclat.  Let's  give  a  final  and 
fitting  end  to  this  grandest  of  trips.  Let's  drop  the 
curtain  with  applause." 

There  was  no  lack  of  congenial  spirits  ;  from  shawl- 
strap  and  bundle  came  the  horns,  and  each  one  fell 
into  line  behind  the  leader,  and  once  and  again 
around  that  station  they  gayly  marched,  drum  beating 
and  horns  blowing. 

But  the  whistle  sounds;  the  train  draws  up;  the 
party  embark,  and  all  too  rapidly  are  whirled  back  to 
the  everyday  world,  where  Mrs.  Grundy  holds  sway, 
and  girls  must  behave  themselves,  while 

"  Around  Sebago's  lonely  lake 
There  lingers  not  a  breeze  to  break 
The  mirror  which  its  waters  make." 

One  thing  this  girl  camping  party  has  proved, 
namely,  that  a  party  of  young  women  can  manage  and 
carry  through  to  success  a  delightful  expedition,  with 
benefit  to  health  and  not  utter  depletion  of  purse. 

Yea,  verily,  and  yet  another :  that  the  presence  of 
so  many  unattended  gentlewomen  turns  every  Ameri- 
can man  into  a  gentleman  and  a  brother,  ready  to  be 
of  service  in  any  way,  and  so  long  as  they  behave 
themselves,  even  though  they  indulge  in  girlish  fun, 
they  have  not  to  dread  the  slightest  rudeness  of  word 
or  look  in  the  rural  districts  of  New  England. 


A  CRISIS. 


BY 


LIZZIE  W.  CHAMPNEYc 


LL..:...     .^.....,^ 


ELIZABETH  W.  CHAMPNEY. 


MRS.  CHAMPNEY,  whose  proper  name  is  Elizabeth,  is 
the  daughter  of  Judge  S.  B.  Williams,  and  was  born  at 
Springfield,  O.,  Febuary6,  1850.  She  was  educated  at 
"Vassar,"  graduating  from  that  institution  in  1869, 
and  it  was  her  esteem  and  attachment  to  this,  her  alma 
mater,  which  induced  her  to  give  that  popular  and 
suggestive  name  to  that  interesting  series  of  books 
beginning  with  "Three  Vassar  Girls  Abroad,"  and 
which  consists  of  seven  good  sized  volumes.  One 
would  hardly  realize  that  the  easy  reading  books  which 
she  has  given  in  such  quick  succession  to  the  public, 
were  the  result  of  the  most  painstaking  research,  was 
it  not  known  that  such  is  the  fact. 

Mrs.  Champney  has  resided  much  abroad,  and  has 
never  pretended  to  describe  places  or  communities 
without  having  first  conscientiously  visited  and  investi- 
gated them,  and  searched  out  all  the  historical  facts 
which  could  throw  any  light  upon  the  era,  or  people 
represented.  As  aids  to  her  literary  work  she  has 
visited  England,  France,  Spain,  Portugal,  Morocco, 
and  other  well-known  and  less  known  portions  of 
Europe.  Her  observations  and  experiences,  thus 
vitalized  by  actual  contact  with  strange  nationalities, 
found  in  many  cases  their  first  expression  in  Harper's 
Magazine,  and  also  in  the  Century,  for  which 
periodicals  she  has  furnished  eighty  or  more  articles — 
including  a  very  interesting  series  on  Portugal — and 
those  attractive  papers  entitled  "A  Neglected  Corner 
of  Europe,"  and  "  In  the  Footsteps  of  Futuney  and 
Regnault."  Since  her  return  to  the  United  States  Mrs. 
Champney  has  written  in  all,  fifteen  books ;  novels, 
stories  for  juveniles,  and  really  historical  works  under 
cover  of  stories,  mostly  adapted  to  young  people.  The 
novels  are,  "  Bourbon  Lilies,"  and  "  Romany  and  Rue." 
Of  the  juveniles,  "  All  Around  a  Palette,"  and  "  Howling 

417 


41 8  ELIZABETH  W.  CHAMPNEY. 

Wolf  and    His   Trick    Pony"  appear  to  be  the   m 
popular.     The  historical  series  include  such  fascinati 
stories  as  "  Great  Grandmother  Girls  in  New  Franc 
and   in   Mexico;  and  in  these  semi-historical   stori 
Mrs.    Champney  carefully  avoids  all   such   embellis^ 
ments  and  fancies  as  would  mislead  her  young  reade. 
into   historical   misconceptions :    she    knows    how   tc 
make  them  bright  and  pleasant  without  drawing  on  he 
inner  consciousness,  where  facts  are  concerned.     Sh< 
can  be  humorous  too  when  she  pleases — witness  that 
laughter    provoking     little    poem    published    in     St. 
Nicholas,  for  1876,    "  How  Persimmon  Took  Cah  ob 
de  Baby."     Beside  her  magazine  stories  for  children 
she  has  written  fourteen  juvenile  books. 

Our  "  Lizzy  Champney,"  as  Elizabeth  Wheeler,  was 
married  to  Mr.  J.  Wells  Champney,  the  well-known 
artist,  on  May  15, 1873,  a  union  peculiarly  felicitious  in 
both  a  domestic  and  artistic  sense,  since  Mr.  Champney 
has  been  the  illustrator  to  a  great  extent  of  his  wife's 
books ;  ever  appreciative  and  able  to  seize,  as  a 
stranger  could  scarcely  so  well  do,  the  very  spirit  of 
scenes  described  and  in  many  of  which  he  had  partici- 
pated. Both  possess  artistic  natures,  but  working  in 
different  fields  they  mutually  aid  and  inspirit  each 
other.  They  have  one  son,  Edouard  Frere,  who  is  also 
ready  and  able  to  give  his  mother  "  points  "  as  to  what 
will  take  with  the  boys. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Champney's  summer  home  is  in 
Deerfield,  Mass.  It  was  in  this  town  that  the  Indian 
massacre  took  place  which  suggested  to  her  the  narra- 
tive story  relating  to  "  New  France."  Their  winter 
residence  is  in  New  York. 


A  CRISIS. 


MR.  JONATHAN  T.  WARD,  or,  as  his  card  more 
modernly  expressed  it,  "J.  Templeton  Ward,  Jun.," 
looked  like  a  man  supremely  satisfied  with  his  fortune 
and  himself. 

He  had  just  received  a  particularly  gratifying  letter 
from  a  sister  in  New  York,  calling  him  to  the  city  on  a 
flattering  errand,  and  as  he  entered  the  cars  this  pleas- 
ant October  morning  the  universe  seemed  irradiated 
with  his  own  private  sense  of  happiness.  The  only 
drawback  to  his  perfect  enjoyment  was  the  fact  that  on 
this  train  there  was  no  parlor-car.  It  was  vexatious  to 
be  obliged  to  breathe  the  same  atmosphere  with  the 
common  herd,  and  to  submit  his  scented  personality  to 
the  contamination  of  proximity  to  peanut-eating  rus- 
tics, travel-worn  cinereous  pilgrims,  not  overmannerly 
children,  and  the  inevitable  baby.  "He  adapted  himself 
to  circumstances,  however,  with  the  ready  savoir-faire 
of  an  experienced  man  of  the  world,  turning  a  seat,  and 
elongating  his  finely  proportioned  form  after  the  man- 
ner of  the  heraldic  "  bend" — an  honorable  ordinary 
which  crosses  an  escutcheon  in  a  diagonal  direction — 
taking  up  as  much  space  as  possible.  He  dropped  his 
hand-bag,  cane,  and  light  overcoat  carelessly  in  the  va- 
cant corners,  and  thus  comfortably  extended,  even  the 
public  car  seemed  bearable,  and  he  found  himself  able 
to  contemplate  his  plebeian  and  more  crowded  neigh- 
bors with  urbane  condescension. 

After  a  few  moments  his  ringers  instinctively  sought 
an  inner  pocket,  and  he  re-read  the  letter  which  had  so 
contributed  to  his  self-gratulation.  It  was  from  his 
favorite  sister  Rose,  who  had  married  Henry  Molineux, 
a  wealthy  broker,  and  whose  happy  married  life  had 
caused  no  diminution  in  her  home  affection.  The 
Molineux  were  in  their  way  very  grand  people,  grander 
than  the  Wards,  for  they  counted  larger  store  of 
419 


420  A  CXfSIS. 

shekels  and  lands  and  antique  heirlooms,  and  Rose 
alliance    had   been   fully   approved    by   her   brother.1 
Rose  herself  was  a  bit  of  a  match-maker,  and  had  lq»ng^ 
cherished  a  dream  of  a  double  connection  between  tjhe 
two  families  by  the  marriage  of  her  brother  with  h^r 
husband's   sister,   Miss    Winifred    Molineux.     Unforfc- 
unately  for  her  plans,  shortly  after  her  own   wedding; 
her  husband's  family  had   sailed  for  Europe,  remaining 
abroad   four   years,  and  the  objects  of  her   romantic  3 
schemes  had   never  met.     Very  deftly,  however,  Mrs.  ' 
Rose   Molineux  had  managed  her  cards,  keeping  up 
Miss  Winifred's  interest  in  the  unknown  paragon  by 
means  of  shrewd  allusions  and  items  of  interest,  but 
never  waxing  sufficiently  enthusiastic  to  alarm  the   shy 
girl    with    apprehensions    of    a     matrimonial     pitfall 
arranged  for  her  unsuspecting  feet.     With  her   brother 
Mrs.  Molineux's   manoeuvres  had  been  less    strategic 
and  delicate.     The  matter  had  been  frankly  discussed 
between  them,  and  Mr.  J.  Templeton  Ward  acknowl- 
edged  himself  prepared  to  become    Miss    Winifred's 
willing   slave   at   first  sight.     Indeed,  he   nearly   per- 
suaded himself  that  he  was  already  in  love  with  her, 
and  he  brooded  over  his  sister's    letter  with  all  the 
benign  serenity  of  an  accepted  lover. 

"  DEAR  TEMPLETON  "  (wrote  Mrs.  Molineux), — 
"  Henry's  father  and  mother  have  at  length  returned 
from  Europe,  and  have  agreed  to  let  me  have  Winifred 
for  the  winter.  I  want  you  to  drop  everything  else, 
and  devote  yourself  to  us,  to  escort  Winifred  to  all  the 
exhibitions,  symphony  rehearsals,  receptions,  etc. ,  of 
the  season.  She  is  looking  remarkably  well,  and  what 
is  better,  has  returned  entirely  heart  free.  I  was  afraid 
some  French  marquis  would  be  attracted  by  her  dot, 
and  snatch  her  up.  I  know  that  you  are  very  sensitive 
on  such  matters,  and  will  not  thank  me  for  telling  you, 
but  by  the  death  of  her  Uncle  Robert  in  Pernambuco 
she  has  come  into  possession  of  thirty  thousand 
dollars,  which,  in  addition  to  her  expectations  from 
Papa  Molineux,  makes  her  a  very  pretty  heiress.  Do 
not  let  anything  delay  your  coming.  As  What's-his- 
name  says,  '  A  crisis  comes  once  in  the  life  of  every 
man.' " 

There  is  a  trite  old  saying  in  regard  to  cup  and  lip 
which  I  forbear  quoting,  remarking  only  that  it  is  a 


BY  LIZZIE  W.  CHAMPNEY.  421 

Mistake  to  confide  delicate  porcelain  to  baby  fingers. 
Mr.  Ward's  cup  would  probably  never  have  slipped 
had  it  not  been  for  a  baby,  of  whose  influence  upon  his 
fate  he  was  as  yet  blissfully  unconscious.  It  was  a 
sorry  day  for  him  when  the  three  weird  sisters  con- 
verted Mr.  Templeton  Ward's  cup  of  happiness — which 
had  hitherto  been  as  carefully  guarded  as  though  it 
had  been  a  veritable  bit  of  blossomed  Dresden  or  a 
fragile  specimen  of  Sevres  in  Pompadour  rose — into  a 
plaything  for  a  ruthless  and  irresponsible  baby. 

Mr.  Ward  had  drifted  into  a  day-dream,  when  he 
was  recalled  suddenly  to  the  actualities  of  the  present 
by  a  sweet  voice  at  his  elbow  inquiring  diffidently,  "  Is 
this  seat  engaged  ?" 

Turning  sharply,  he  saw  a  dignified  but  youthful 
lady,  with  a  face  like  that  of  one  of  Raphael's  Madon- 
nas. His  impressible  heart  paid  her  homage  at  once, 
and  he  was  about  to  spring  to  his  feet  with  spontaneous 
politeness,  when  the  pleasurable  emotion  was  checked 
by  one  of  dismay.  She  held  in  her  arms  a  baby — well 
dressed,  neat,  chubby,  bright,  and,  to  a  parental  eye, 
a  cherub  of  a  child  ;  to  Mr.  J.  Templeton  Ward,  his 
pet  aversion  and  peculiar  horror. 

He  looked  at  the  child  with  an  expression  of  intense 
disapprobation.  "  I  think  you  will  be  more  comfort- 
able at  the  other  end  of  the  car,"  he  remarked,  slowly 
raising  his  eyeglasses  and  surveying  the  perspective  of 
crowded  seats. 

"  I  will  try  another  car,"  replied  the  lady,  with  quiet 
dignity. 

Mr.  Templeton  Ward's  good-breeding  asserted  itself. 
"  Indeed,  madam,  I  had  not  observed  that  there  were 
no  vacant  seats.  Pray  do  not  imagine  me  so  egre- 
giously  selfish  ;"  and  the  little  lady  was  quickly  seated 
as  his  vis-d-vts.  For  some  time  the  baby  conducted  it- 
self in  an  exemplary  manner,  drumming  on  the  win- 
dow-pane, and  watching  the  rapidly  whirling  landscape, 
and  Mr.  Templeton  Ward  had  time  to  observe  that  the 
lady  was  dressed  in  that  alleviated  mourning  which 
allows  certain  concessions  to  fashion  and  becomingness 
in  the  toleration  of  white  at  throat  and  wrists,  and 
solitaire  pearls  in  either  ear. 

"Widowhood,"  he  mused  to  himself — "widowhood 
which  has  passed  the  first  poignancy  of  grief,  and  had 


422  A  CKISIS. 

entered  the  lonely  stage  which  finds  a  solitary  life  al- 
most unendurable."  He  noticed  with  keen,  observant 
eye  the  curling  sweep  of  the  long  jet  lashes  which 
shaded  the  delicately  rounded  ivory  cheek,  and  widow- 
hood struck  him  as  the  most  pathetic  and  attractive 
aspect  under  which  he  had  ever  considered  woman. 
He  determined  for  one  hour  at  least  to  make  her  forget 
her  unprotected  condition. 

He  endeavored  first  to  propititate  the  maternal 
affections. 

"  You  have  a  fine  little  boy,  madam." 

The  lady  smiled.     "  She  is  a  very  good  baby." 

Mr.  Ward  was  momentarily  confused,  "  Your  little 
daughter  resembles  you  strikingly,"  he  remarked. 

Again  the  rarely  sweet  smile  flickered  across  the 
lady's  lips. 

"  You  could  not  compliment  me  in  a  more  gratifying 
manner,"  she  replied. 

He  turned  to  the  baby,  and  endeavored  to  interest  it 
in  an  exhibition  of  his  watch  and  seals. 

"  What  is  her  name  ?  "  he  asked,  hoping  that  the 
reply  might  involve  that  of  the  mother. 

"  We  call  her  Dimple.  Don't  you  think  a  baby  the 
most  delicious  thing  in  the  whole  world  ?  " 

"Well,  no,  it  had  never  occurred  to  me  in  that  light 
before ;  but  you  know  I  have  not  had  the  advantage  of 
an  acquaintance  with  Miss  Dimple." 

"You  could  not  help  liking  her.  She  never  cries; 
she  is  absolutely  angelic." 

Mr.  Ward  was  on  the  point  of  remarking,  "I  said 
she  resembled  you,"  but  he  checked  himself ;  they 
were  not  sufficiently  intimate  yet  for  flattery. 

The  conversation  became  impersonal,  and  drifted 
through  a  wide  range  of  subjects,  Mr.  Templeton  Ward 
becoming  more  and  more  interested  in  his  travelling 
companion,  and  quite  ignoring  the  presence  of  the 
baby.  This  young  person  at  last  became  fidgety  and 
even  cross. 

"  The  precious  infant ! "  exclaimed  the  lady. 
"  How  forgetful  I  am  1  She  should  have  been  fed 
twenty  minutes  ago." 

A  basket  was  produced,  and  a  little  rummaging  brought 
to  light  a  nursing  bottle.  "  Dear !  (tear ! "  murmured 


BY  LIZZIE  W.  CHAMPNEY.  423 

the  baby's  guardian  :  "  here  is  the  bottle,  but  where  is 
the  milk  ?     How  stupid  in  Maggie  to  forget  it !  " 

The  baby  at  the  sight  of  the  bottle  at  first  chirruped 
with  gleeful  excitement,  then  became  frantically  impa- 
tient, and  finally  burst  into  a  roar  of  anger  as  the  train 
paused  at  an  out-of-the-way  country  station. 

"I  see  farm  houses,  and  cows  grazing  in  the  past- 
ures," suggested  Mr.  Ward ;  "  perhaps  I  can  obtain 
some  milk  for  you." 

"  Oh,  no,  no ;  pray  do  not  trouble  yourself,"  replied 
the  lady ;  "if  you  will  kindly  watch  baby,  lean  get 
it.''  And  before  he  had  time  to  insist,  she  was  out  of 
the  car  and  running  toward  one  of  the  farm-houses. 
Mr.  Ward  explained  the  situation  to  the  conductor,  who 
agreed  to  wait  two  minutes  beyond  the  usual  time  for 
her  return.  Two  minutes,  three  minutes,  four  minutes 
passed,  and  still  she  came  not. 

The    engineer  sounded  the    whistle,   the  conductor 
shouted :    "  All    aboard  !     I    can't   wait    any    longer. 
She's  had   plenty  of  time.     I  must  reach  the  next  sta- 
tion before  the  up-irain,"  he  explained,  and  the  train 
moved  on.     Mr.  J.  Templeton  Ward  gazed  in  a  stupe- 
fied   manner    from  the    window;    the    baby    howled. 
"  Come,  this  will  never  do,"  he  said,  as  he  endeavored 
simultaneously  to  realize  the  situation  and  to  quiet  the 
distracting  baby,  his  thoughts  and  words  keeping  up  a 
running  fugue  somewhat  in  this  manner  : 
Thought :  "  What  can  have  detained  her  ?  " 
Aloud  :  "  Precious  little  Dimple,  so — " 
Thought :  "Where  did  she  disappear  to,  anyway?" 
Aloud  :  " — it  was.    She  shall  have  the  pretty  watch." 
Thought :  "  Great  Caesar  !     Can  it  be — " 
Aloud  :  "Angelic  little  cherub  !  " 
Thought :  " — a  case  of  desertion  ?  " 
Aloud  :  "  Never  cries — no,  never." 
Thought :  "  Of  course  not.     She  was  a  perfect  lady, 
impossible." 

Aloud  :  "Shut  up  this  minute,  or  I'll — " 
Thought  :  "What  shall  I  do  with  the  consumed — " 
Aloud  :  " — speak  to  you  like  a  father." 
Thought :  " — ihing  when  I  get  to  the  city  ?  " 
Aloud  (to  old  lady  who  offers  a  peppermint]:  "Thank 
you,  ma'am."  (To  baby):    "  There,  choke  your  blessed 
throat  1  " 


424  A  CRISIS. 

Thought :  "  What  a  figure  I'll  cut  at  the  depot !  " 

Aloud  (Attempting  to  sing):  "  Oh,  where  shall  rest 
be  found  ?  "  "  Byelo,  byelo  "  (shaking  child  violently)  ; 
"  go  to  sleepy." 

Thought :  "  Suppose  Rose  should  be  at  the  station 
with  Winifred  to  meet  me  !  " 

Aloud  :  "  Darling  popsy  wopsy  chickabiddy  chum  ! 
See  how  funny  it  looks  in  big  man's  hat !  "  (Extin- 
guishes baby  in  his  light-colored  high  hat.) 

Thought :  "  She  said  a  baby  was  the  most  delightful 
thing  in  the  whole  world.  Any  woman  who  can  lie  like 
that  is  capable  of  deserting  her  unprotected  offspring." 

Aloud  (removing  the  hat}:  "  Good  gracious !  It's 
black  in  the  face  ;  it's  going  into  convulsions  !  " 

Thought :  "  I'd  like  to  know  what  everybody  is 
laughing  at.  If  I  had  a  pistol  I'd  shoot  somebody." 

Aloud :  "  Look  here,  now,  Miss  Dimpsy  Impsy. 
Come,  let  us  reason  together.  This  thing  has  got  to 
be  stopped.  Be  calm — I  say  be  calm." 

Thought :  "  I'll  leave  it  in  the  seat,  take  my  baggage 
and  put  for  the  smoking  car."  (Suits  the  action  to  the 
idea.  Settles  himself  comfortably.  Newsboy  appears 
almost  immediately  with  the  baby,  still  screaming.) 

Newsboy :  "  Please,  sir,  you  left  part  of  your  bag- 
gage." (Train  comes  to  a  stop  in  New  York  depot.) 

Thought :  "  There's  a  policeman.  I'll  hand  the 
wretch  over  to  him,  and  get  him  to  carry  it  to  the  sta- 
tion-house or  the  foundling  hospital." 

A  few  minutes  later  and  Mr.  J.  Templeton  Ward 
gayly  mounted  the  steps  of  his  brother-in-law's  brown- 
stone  mansion.  A  great  incubus  had  been  removed 
from  his  mind,  and  he  now  felt  disposed  to  treat  the 
adventure  with  hilarity.  His  sister  met  him  most  cordi- 
ally, and  throwing  himself  upon  the  sofa  by  her  side, 
he  related  the  story,  decorated  with  considerable  im- 
aginative embroidery. 

"  Think,  Rose,"  he  said,  solemnly,  "  what  a  tremen- 
dous escape  !  There  I  was  a  complete  victim.  Why,  I 
actually  took  her  for  a  respectable  and  fascinating 
little  widow,  and  was  flirting  with  her  in  the  most  con- 
fiding manner." 

"  Do  you  really  think  she  meant  to  desert  the  baby  ?  " 
asked  Mrs.  Molineux. 

"  Oh,  without  doubt,     She  had  got  herself  up  nicely 


LIZZIE    W.  CHAMPNEY.  425 

on  purpose  to  deceive  ;  and  to  think  that  I  did  not  sus- 
pect her  designs  when  she  asked  me  if  I  did  not  think 
that  execrable  baby  delicious  !  " 

"  Was  the  baby  pretty,  Templeton  ? " 

"  Pretty !  I  should  think  not.  I  wish  you  could 
have  seen  it.  It  bore  the  marks  of  depravity  stamped 
upon  its  brow.  When  it  howled,  if  glared  at  me  with 
demoniac  eyes,  and  fisted  like  a  prize-fighter.  I  am 
morally  certain  that  its  father  is  one  of  the  champions 
of  the  ring." 

"  And  what  did  you  say  you  did  with  it,  dear  ?  " 

"  I  got  rid  of  it  as  quickly  as  possible,  I  assure  you. 
1  handed  it  to  a  policeman,  and  requested  him  to  drop 
it  into  the  East  River.  I  had  the  satisfaction,  how- 
ever, of  pinching  it  well  before  I  saw  the  last  of  it." 

"  Do  you  suppose  the  man  thought  you  were  in  ear- 
nest, Templeton  ? " 

"  Of  course  not.  He  has  carted  it  off  to  the  Home  for 
the  Friendless,  or  the  Asylum  for  Little  Wanderers,  or 
some  institution  of  that  sort,  I  suppose.  But  let's  drop 
the  baby.  Where's  Winifred  ?  " 

"  I  expect  her  every  moment.  There's  the  door-bell 
now.  Let  me  see." 

Mrs.  Molineux  motioned  back  the  servant,  and  her- 
self opened  the  hall  door,  finding  herself,  to  her  sur- 
prise, face  to  face  with  her  husband,  who  wore  an  anx- 
ious expression.  Mr.  Ward,  who  sat  just  within  the 
parlor,  heard  their  conversation  distinctly. 

Rose.  "  Why,  Henry,  what's  the  matter  ?  " 

Mr.  M.  "  Nothing.'  Don't  be  alarmed  ;  only  a  tele- 
gram- from  Winifred.  She  was  left,  and  will  come  on 
the  next  train." 

Rose.  "  Oh  !  is  that  all  ?  Then  she  ought  to  be  here 
now  :  the  trains  run  every  hour." 

Mr.  M.  "  Winifred's  all  right,  but— I  don't  want  to 
alarm  you.  Be  calm — " 

Rose-  "  The  baby  !  is  she  sick  ?  " 

Mr.  M.  "  Don't  get  excited.     The  baby  is  not  sick." 

Rose  (desperately}.     "  Is  she  dead  ?  " 

Mr.  M.  "  No,  no.  You  always  imagine  the  very 
-worst  that  can  happen.  She  is  only  lost." 

A  piercing  shriek  followed,  and  Mr.  Ward  sprang 
into  the  h^U  just  in  time  to  see  his  sister  faint  in  the 
ttfrns  of  her  fousband.  They  carried  her  into  the  par' 


426  A  CRfSIS. 

lor,  and  she  was  at  once  surrounded  by  frightened 
domestics.  In  the  confusion  that  followed,  Winifred 
Molineux  arrived.  There  was  no  time  for  introduc- 
tions, and  indeed  none  were  needed,  for  Mr.  Ward,  to 
his  utter  dismay,  recognized  his  companion  of  the 
train,  the  supposed  mother  of  the  baby. 

"  I  was  bringing  Dimple  home  from  a  visit  to  her 
grandmother,"  she  explained,  and  added:  "Is  it  possi- 
ble that  you  are  Mr.  J.  Templeton  Ward  ?  Then  the 
baby  is  safe." 

Mrs.  Molineux  opened  her  eyes,  and  suddenly  sitting 
bolt-upright,  assumed  a  tragic  attitude.  "  Winifred," 
she  demanded,  "  why  did  you  abandon  my  precious 
Dimple  ? " 

"I  left  her  to  get  some  milk,"  Winifred  replied, 
good  humoredly,  "  and  as  I  was  coming  out  of  the 
dairy  a  horrid  goat  barred  my  passage.  The  woman 
drove  him  away,  but  he  stopped  me  again  at  the  past- 
ure bars,  and  I  did  not  reach  the  station  until  the 
train  had  left." 

Mrs.  Molineux  laughed  hysterically.  "  Jonathan 
Templeton  Ward,"  she  exclaimed,  "  what  have  you 
done  with  your  sister's  child  ?  " 

"  How  was  I  to  know  it  was  yours  ? "  he  asked, 
deprecatingly.  "  I  had  forgotten  that  Miss  Winifred 
would  be  in  mourning  for  her  uncle,  and  I  thought 
she  was  a  widow." 

"  You  thought !  "  interrupted  his  sister.  "  The  least 
said  about  that,  the  better.  He  sent  his  niece  to  the 
foundling  hospital  ;  he  insulted  Winifred  and  all  of  us 
in  a  manner  not  to  be  repeated.  Oh,  my  precious 
Dimple,  my  lovely  pet !  He  told  the  policeman  to 
drop  her  into  the  East  River.  Henry,  he  said  you 
were  a  prize-fighter.  Winifred,  he  is  not  worthy  of 
your  slightest  thought.  Why  do  you  stand  there  staring 
at  me  in  that  idiotic  manner,  Jonathan  ?  I  disown 
you  ;  you  are  not  worthy  to  be  the  uncle  of  that  cherub 
darling." 

Mr.  J.  Templeton  Ward  did  not  wait  to  hear  all.  He 
darted  out  of  the  door,  murmuring  to  himself,  "  A 
crisis  comes  once  in  the  affairs  of  every  man  ;"  and 
seeking  the  policeman  with  frantic  haste,  Miss  Dimple 
was  in  a  few  hours  returned  to  the  bosom  Ql  her  fam- 


BY  LIZZIE  W.  CHAMPNEY.  427 

ily.  His  sister,  however,  refused  to  see  him,  and  it 
was  not  until  the  marriage  of  Miss  Winifred  Molineux 
to  an  officer  in  the  United  States  navy  that  Mr.  J. 
Templeton  Ward  finally  made  his  peace  with  his  out- 
raged relatives. 


MEG. 


BY 


JULIA  C.  R.  DORR. 


JULIA  C.  R.  DORR. 

MRS.  DORR,  whose  maiden  name  was  Julia  Caroline 
Ripley,  was  born  at  Charleston,  S.  C.,  February  13, 
1825.  She  is  descended,  on  her  father's  side,  from 
Governor  William  Bradford  of  the  Mayflower  Company, 
and  on  her  mother's  from  a  French  family,  who  re- 
sided on  the  Island  of  San  Domingo  until  driven  away 
by  the  insurrection,  when  they  went  to  Charleston. 
Mrs.  Dorr  spent  but  two  years  of  her  life  in  South 
Carolina,  and  her  home  thereafter  was  Vermont,  her 
father's  native  State.  The  motherless  girl  was  carefully 
educated  by  her  father,  whose  library  was  the  school- 
room in  which  she  did  her  studying  and  reading. 
When  she  was  married  to  Seneca  M.  Dorr,  then  of 
New  York,  but  for  the  last  twenty  years  of  Vermont, 
she  was  a  very  thoroughly  cultivated  young  woman. 

Her  first  published  poem  was  sent  by  her  husband, 
without  her  knowledge,  to  the  Union  Magazine,  then 
edited  by  Mrs.  Kirkland.  It  was  accepted,  and  she 
then  wrote  a  story  which  she  offered  for  one  of  the 
ten  $100  prizes  offered  by  Sartairi's  Magazine  for  the 
ten  best  stories.  She  was  of  the  successful  competi- 
tors, the  list  including  Edward  Everett  Hale  and 
Henry  Herbert  ("Frank  Forrester").  In  1847  she 
published  her  first  novel,  "  Farmingdale,"  under  the 
nom  deplume  of  "  Carolina  Thomas."  Two  years  later 
"  Landmere  ''  was  published  under  her  own  name. 

The  care  and  training  of  her  children  (three  sons 
and  a  daughter)  left   her  no  leisure  for  novel  writing 
for  a  number  of  years,  but  poems  from  her  pen  ap- 
peared from  time  to  time,  and  since  1869  she  has  writ- 
ten  several  volumes.      Her  literary  work  has  formed 
but  a  small   part  of  a  life  full  of  manifold  activities.  , 
She  herself  says  : — "  My  literary  work  has  always  been 
subordinate ;    the  smallest    part  of    my    life.      It  has 
merely  been  a  kind  of  overflow." 
435 


436  JULIA  C.  R.  DORR. 

At  her  handsome  home — "  The  Maples  "  at  Rutland, 
Vermont,  she  constantly  dispenses  an  ample  hospital- 
ity, and  in  all  social  and  charitable  work  she  is  a  power 
for  good.  She  is  president  of  "The  Fortnightly 
Club,"  which  has  a  membership  of  one  hundred  and 
fifty  ;  and  of  a  purely  literary  society  called  "  Friends 
in  Council."  Beside  the  labor  entailed  by  these  two 
offices  Mrs.  Dorr  has  the  oversight  of  the  Public 
Library  of  Rutland,  to  the  establishment  of  which  she 
gave  all  her  copyrights  for  a  year  or  two. 

Mr.  Dorr,  who  was  for  many  years  conspicuous  in 
public  life,  died  four  years  ago,  and  since  that  time  she 
has  written  comparatively  little.  The  zest  has  gone 
out  of  her  pen  work  as  out  of  her  life  since  she  lost  her 
husband,  who  was  lover,  friend,  comrade  and  critic,  all 
in  one.  Her  children  are  grown  up  and  widely  scat- 
tered, but  she  is  not  alone.  Friends  cluster  about  her, 
and  her  harmonious  and  gracious  life,  full  of  kindly  im- 
pulses and  activities,  has  its  reward  in  the  gratitude 
and  affection  of  those  among  whom  she  has  always 
lived.  Mrs.  Dorr  is  one  of  the  best  beloved  of  Ameri 
can  poets  and  novelists. 


> 


MEG. 


MARGARET  NEALE,  a  girl  of  twenty  or  thereabouts,  sat 
on  a  low  broad  stone  near  the  edge  of  a  cliff  that  over- 
hung the  sea.  Her  features  were  irregular,  but  she 
had  a  certain  dark  gypsy-like  beauty  of  her  own.  Her 
brown  stuff  gown  clung  closely  about  her ;  her  hat  had 
fallen  back  and  hung  carelessly  by  the  strings  ;  a  red 
woolen  shawl  was  wrapped  around  her  shoulders,  one 
end  trailing  off  over  the  scant,  gray  herbage.  Her 
hands  were  clasped  about  her  knees  ;  there  was  a 
hard  set  look  about  the  unsmiling  mouth  ;  and  the  eyes 
that  were  sometimes  most  tender,  had  a  dangerous 
light  in  them  as  they  gazed  steadfastly  off  over  the 
darkening  sea  to  the  distant  horizon  still  red  with  the 
reflected  glow  of  the  sunset. 

At  a  little  distance,  but  with  his  back  towards  her, 
and  his  steel-blue  eyes  just  as  steadfastly  bent  in  the 
opposite  direction,  stood  Matthew  Enckson,  a  hand- 
some young  fellow  enough,  in  the  rough  dress  of  a 
miner,  tall,  strong  and  ruddy,  with  a  full  curling,  chest- 
nut beard,  and  hair  of  the  same  rich  color.  A  blue 
ribbon  dangled  from  his  left  hand. 

There  had  evidently  been  a  quarrel  ;  and  a  love 
quarrel  in  a  straggling  mining  hamlet  on  the  north- 
west coast  of  England,  does  not  differ  greatly  from 
one  in  a  scattered  fishing  hamlet  on  the  eastern  coast 
of  Maine.  Forms  of  speech  may  differ ;  but  love  and 
anger  are  much  the  same  the  wide  world  over.  As  for 
the  queer,  quaint,  dialect  in  which  this  especial  pair  of 
lovers  poured  forth  their  mutual  grievances,  no  attempt 
will  be  made  to  reproduce  it  here.  You  may  be  sure 
they  said  "yo"  for  "you,"  and  "  towd  "  for  "  told," 
and  "canna"  for  "cannot,"  and  "  ta "  for  "  thou." 
But  all  that  shall  be  taken  for  granted— if  not  for  your 
ease  and  comfort,  at  least  for  mine  ! 

Tired   of   the    silence  at  length    the   young  miner 
437 


43&  MEG. 

sauntered  away  with  an  air  of  assumed  indifference, 
and  picking  up  a  handful  of  pebbles  slowly  tossed 
them  one  by  one,  into  the  waves  below.  Margaret's 
eyes  did  not  waver,  but  none  the  less  did  she  follow 
every  motion  of  his  hand.  Having  watched  the  fall  of 
his  last  pebble  he  came  back  and  stood  behind  her, 
winding  the  ribbon  round  his  finger  to  its  evident 
detriment. 

'•  So  you  will  not  wear  it,  Meg  ?  "  he  said  at  last. 

"  No,  I  will  not,"  she  answered  without  turning  her 
head.  "  Why  do  you  vex  me  ?  There's  no  more  to  be 
said  about  it." 

"But  why,  Meg?"  and  he  laid  his  hand  on  her 
shoulder  as  with  an  attempt  at  conciliation.  "  Tell  me 
why  ?  Surely  you  can  do  no  less." 

"  Because — because — I  can't  abide  blue,  Matt 
Erickson.  It's  hateful  to  me." 

"  But  I  like  it,  Meg  !  and  if  you  cared  for  me  you 
would  be  glad  to  wear  a  blue  ribbon  to  the  fair  when  I 
ask  it." 

"  Why  did  you  buy  it?"  she  asked  shortly,  turning 
towards  him  by  a  hair's  breadth.  "  Not  to  please  me, 
that's  sure ! " 

"  Yes  i  to  please  you,  and  to  please  myself.  Jenny 
wears  ribbons  as  blue  as  her  own  eyes,  and  I  am  sure 
you  cannot  say  they  are  not  pretty.  You  are  just 
stubborn,  Meg." 

Poor  Matt !  In  his  uneducated  masculine  blindness 
he  could  not  see  that  the  delicate  color  that  harmonized 
so  well  with  his  pretty  cousin's  pink-and-white  cheeks 
and  sunny  curls,  was  utterly  unsuited  to  his  brown 
Meg,  who  needed  rich,  dark  hues  and.  warm  reds  to 
brighten  her  somewhat  swarthy  complexion. 

And  poor  Meg !  She  had  an  instinctive  sense  of 
fitness  that  taught  her  this,  but  she  was  not  wise 
enough  to  know  how  to  explain  it  to  her  somewhat 
imperious  lover.  She  could  only  say  she  "hated 
blue  !  " 

Besides,  Meg  had  carried  a  sore  spot  in  her  heart 
for  two  months  ;  ever  since  this  same  cousin  Jenny  of 
Matt's  came  on  a  visit  to  Rysdyk.  She  was  a  dimpled, 
delicate  little  creature  from  the  south — from  near 
London  in  fact — where,  as  Meg  was  very  certain, 
everything  was  nicer  and  finer  than  in  Lancashire. 


BY  JULIA  C.  R.  DORR.  439 

Jenny's  hands  were  soft  and  white,  and  she  had  pretty 
gowns  as  befitted  the  daughter  of  a  well-to-do  farmer 
who  kept  men-servants  and  maid-servants.  And  she 
had  a  pair  of  real  gold  ear-rings  and  a  lace  scarf ! 
Old  Mother  Marley  said  it  was  real  lace,  but  of  that 
Meg  was  not  quite  sure.  That  was  a  height  of 
magnificence  to  which  she  was  not  certain  even  Jenny 
could  attain.  And  Jenny  had  sweet  little  coaxing 
ways  with  her  ,  and  she  was  always  purring  round  her 
Cousin  Matt,  like  a  kitten  ;  and — and — she  wore  blue 
ribbons  !  Meg  would  none  of  them. 

She  sat  for  a  moment  as  if  turned  to  stone.  Then 
she  blazed  out, 

"'Jenny!'  'Jenny!' I  am  tired  of  'Jenny'!  She 
has  turned  your  head  with  her  flirting  ways  like  a 
butterfly,  and  her  yellow  hair  and  her  finery.  Give 
your  blue  ribbon  to  her  and  take  her  to  the  fair — for 
I'll  not  wear  it  1 " 

"  And  you'll  not  go  to  the  fair  either  ?  "  said  Matt, 
in  tones   of  suppressed  passion.     "Is  that  what  yoy^ 
mean  ?  " 

I'll  not  go  with  you,"  she  answered,  growing  cool 
herself  as  he  grew  angry.  "  Yet  it's  likely  enough  that 
I  may  go.  There  are  plenty  of  lads  who  would  be 
glad  to  take  me  with  no  ribbons  at  all." 

With  a  strong  effort  the  young  man  put  the  curb 
upon  his  tongue,  but  his  face  darkened.  You  will  go 
with  me  or  with  no  one,  Meg,"  he  said.  "  This  is  all 
nonsense — and  we  to  be  married  next  Michaelmas  ! 
But  come,"  and  he  put  out  his  hand  to  raise  her  from 
the  stone,  "  it  grows  dark." 

Meg,  still  angry,  but  willing  to  be  pacified  if  she 
must,  allowed  him  to  assist  her,  and  stood  beside  her 
stalwart  lover  with  burning  cheeks  and  downcast  eyes. 
She  rather  liked,  on  the  whole,  his  tacit  refusal  to 
defend  himself  and  his  masterful  way  of  telling  her  it 
was  "  all  nonsense."  But  just  at  this  moment,  as  ill 
luck  would  have  it,  a  small  brown  paper  parcel  dropped 
from  the  folds  of  her  shawl.  Matt  stooped  to  pick  it 
up.  It  burst  open,  and  a  yard  or  two  of  scarlet  ribbon 
rippled  over  his  fingers. 

Now  our  poor  Meg,  not  to  be  outdone  by  the  fair 
Jenny,  had  bought  this  ribbon  herself  that  very  even- 
ing, meaning  to  wear  it  to  the  fair  next  week.  But  it 


44O  MEG. 

so  happened  that  when  Matt  went  to  Mother  Marley's 
shop  to  buy  his  own  blue  love-token,  he  had  found 
Dan  Willis  there — the  only  man  in  Rysdyk  whose 
rivalship  he  had  ever  feared.  And  Dan  was  buy- 
ing a  ribbon  precisely  like  this.  Mother  Marley 
had  wrapped  it  in  this  very  piece  of  paper  Matt  was 
sure,  and  he  had  seen  Dan  put  it  in  his  pocket  and 
walk  off  with  it. 

And  now,  here  it  was!  His  gift  was  spurned  then 
and  his  rival's  accepted;  and  all  Meg's  talk  about 
Jenny  was  a  mere  subterfuge — an  excuse  for  a 
quarrel. 

It  was  easy  to  see,  now,  why  she  had  been  so  irrita- 
ble of  late,  and  so  prone  to  take  offence.  But  a  man 
could  not  stand  everything,  and  if  Meg  preferred  Dan 
Willis  to  him,  why  so  be  it. 

Yet  if  she  would  not  wear  his  love-token  she 
certainly  should  not  wear  Dan's.  He  hardly  meant  to 
do  it ;  he  was  sorry  the  next  minute.  But  what  he  did, 
as  the  tide  of  passion  swept  him  off  his  feet  for  an 
instant,  was  to  wind  the  two  ribbons  into  a  knot  and 
throw  them  vehemently  into  the  sea. 

"There  !  "  he  cried,  "  that's  settled  once  for  all." 

"  And  something  else  is  settled,  too,  Matt  Erickson," 
retorted  Meg,  in  a  white  heat.  "  There  will  be  no 
marriage  for  us  next  Michaelmas,  no  marriage  then  or 
ever  !  You  would  strike  me  some  day,  for  aught  I 
know,  if  I  should  choose  to  wear  a  red  knot  rather 
than  a  blue.  I'll  not  run  the  risk.  I'll  have  nothing 
more  to  say  to  you  while  the  stars  shine,"  and  darting 
round  the  cliff,  she  was  half  way  down  to  the  beach 
before  he  ever  thought  of  stopping  her. 

The  next  day  Erickson,;  magnanimous,  great-hearted 
fellow  that  he  was,  after  al"is  having  gotten  over  his  pet 
began  to  look  at  their  quarrel  from  Meg's  standpoint. 
It  occurred  to  him  that  he  might  have  drawn  uncalled 
for  inferences.  Dan  Willis  might  have  a  dozen  sweet- 
hearts who  all  liked  red  ribbons  for  aught  he  knew. 
And  how  like  a  fool  he  had  behaved,  losing  his  temper 
like  a  hot-headed  boy,  and  throwing  Meg's  poor  little 
trinkets  over  the  cliff.  No  wonder  she  was  afraid  to 
trust  him.  More  than  one  husband  in  Rysdyk  was  in 
the  habit  of  beating  his  wife  on  as  slight  provocation 
as  the  hue  of  a  ribbon  ;  and  it  was  not  strange  that  a 


BY  JULIA  C.  R.  DORK.  441 

high-spirited  girl  like  Meg  should  decline  to  run  the 
risk  after  she  had  once  seen  him  in  a  fury. 

As  for  Jenny — she  had  come  in  between  him  and 
Meg.  He  could  see  it  now.  But  she  was  going  home 
the  day  after  the  fair,  and  he  would  see  Meg  that  very 
night  and  tell  her  so.  For  he  did  not  dream  that  all 
was  indeed  over  between  them.  He  could  hardly  wait 
for  the  hour  to  leave  the  mine. 

He  changed  his  soiled  clothes,  ate  his  supper 
hurriedly  and  was  soon  on  his  way  to  Meg,  stopping 
as  he  went  to  buy  another  ribbon — red,  this  time,  and 
broader  and  richer  and  handsomer  than  the  one  he 
had  robbed  her  of. 

Then  he  went  on  through  the  crooked,  scattered 
little  village,  till  he  reached  the  Widow  Neale's  cottage 
just  on  the  outskirts. 

To  his  surprise  he  found  the  door  locked  and  the 
shutters  closed.  As  he  stood  still  in  his  perplexity,  a 
white  headed  urchin  who  was  turning  somersaults  near 
by  shouted  "Ho  you,  Matt  Erickson  !  It's  no  good  to 
wait  there.  The  widow  and  Meg  have  gone  away." 

"  Gone  ?     Where  ?  " 

"  Don't  know.  To  France,  like  enough — or  to 
Ameriky — or  to  London — or  somewheres.  They  took 
a  big  box  and  a  bundle  and  they  don't  know  but  they'll 
stay  forever'n  ever.  Meg  said  so ;  "  and  making  a 
rotating  wheel  of  himself  the  lad  vanished  round  the 
corner. 

Just  then  the  door  of  the  nearest  cottage  opened 
and  a  woman's  face  looked  out.  It  was  growing  dark. 

"  Is  it  you,  Erickson  ?  There's  no  one  at  home  in 
the  house  there.  But  I  have  something  here  I  was  to 
give  you  when  you  came  this  way." 

His  face  was  stern  and  set  and  white  in  the  fading 
light,  as  he  took  the  little  packet  from  the  woman's 
hand. 

"Where  have  they  gone  ?  "  was  all  he  said. 
""  F  don't  just  know.  To  visit  some  of  their  kinfolk 
a  gre;it  v/ay  off,"  the  widow  said.  "  Oh  !  but  she's  a 
close-mouthed  one,  she  is — and  Meg's  a  bit  like  her. 
They  're  not  gossipy  folk.  You  never  get  much  out 
of  them,"  she  added  with  an  injured  air.  "Not  but 
I  've  found  them  good  neighbors  enough  ;  but  they  're 
rather  high  and  mighty  for  commoners." 


442  MEG. 

As  soon  as  he  was  out  of  sight  Matthew  Erickson 
opened  the  packet.  He  knew  what  was  in  it  before 
he  untied  the  knot.  A  .-tring  of  curiously  carved 
beads  with  a  strange,  foreign,  spicy  odor,  that  he  had 
bought  of  a  wandering  sailor  and  fastened  round 
Meg's  neck  one  happy  night ;  and  two  or  three  other 
trifles  he  had  given  her.  And  he  found  this  note, 
slowly  and  painfully  written,  badly  spelled  perhaps, 
and  not  punctuated  at  all.  But  what  of  that  ?  The 
meaning  was  plain  enough  ;  all  too  plain  Matt  thought, 
as  he  drew  his  hand  across  his  eyes  as  if  to  clear  his 
vision. 

"  I  gave  you  back  your  troth  last  night.  Here  are 
the  beads,  and  the  silver  piece,  and  the  heron  feathers. 
Now  all  is  over  between  us."  Here  she  had  evidently 
hesitated  a  moment,  wondering  if  her  words  were 
strong  enough.  For  on  the  line  below  she  had 
written,  as  with  an  echo  from  the  prayer-book  rever- 
berating in  her  ears. 

"  Forever  and  ever,  amen.     Margaret  Neale." 

Not  Meg,  his  Meg,  his  proud,  high-spirited  sweet- 
heart— but  Margaret — Margaret  Neale  !  It  set  her 
at  such  an  immeasurable  distance  from  him.  "All 
is  over  between  us."  As  if  she  were  dead,  and  buried 
out  of  his  sight.  And  he  had  spoken  to  James  Ray 
about  the  snug  cottage  beyond  the  bay  ;  and  they  were 
to  have  been  married  at  Michaelmas ! 

He  knew  enough  of  the  Widow  Neale's  habits  to  ask 
no  more  questions  of  the  neighbors.  As  one  of  them 
had  said,  she  was  close-mouthed.  He  knew  she  had  a 
sister  living  in  Scotland  for  whom  Meg  was  named  ; 
but  where  even  he  did  not  know.  Scotland  was  like 
a  distant,  foreign  land  to  the  people  in  Rysdyk.  But 
the  widow  had  money  enough  to  go  to  Scotland  or 
farther  if  she  wished,  even  on  such  short  notice.  She 
had  never  worked  in  the  mines,  neither  had  Meg. 
She  had  a  comfortable  annuity,  left  her  by  her  old  mis- 
tress ;  for  she  had  served  in  a  great  family  before  she 
married  John  Neale. 

Month  after  month  passed.  Michaelmas  was  over, 
the  winter  came  and  went,  and  Rysdyk  knew  no  more 
of  her  or  of  Meg  than  when  they  left.  The  silence, 
the  void,  grew  unendurable  to  Matt.  With  the  early 
spring  he  carried  into  effect  what  had  been  the  one 


BY  JULIA  C.  K.  DORK.  443 

dream  of  his  life  before  he  learned  to  love  Meg. 
America  was  the  land  of  promise  for  miners  as  well  as 
others  ;  and  had  he  not  a  friend  who  worked  in  the 
great  iron  mines  at  Ishpeming,  on  the  shores  of  the 
wonderful  northern  lake  that  was  itself  almost  as  large 
as  all  England  ?  He  had  no  father  or  mother,  only  a 
half  uncle  whose  house  had  been  the  only  home  he 
had  ever  known. 

What  better  could  he  do  than  to  seek  work  and 
forgetfulness  together,  where  there  would  be  nothing 
to  remind  him  of  the  past. 

So,  when  one  fine  morning  nearly  a  year  after  her 
sudden  flitting,  the  neighbors  awoke  to  find  the  door 
of  Widow  Neale's  cottage  ajar  and  the  shutters  open, 
and  the  first  bit  of  news  Meg  heard  was  that  Matt 
Erickson  had  gone  to  America. 

It  struck  her  like  a  blow  Now  indeed  he  had 
dropped  out  of  her  life,  as  utterly  as  months  since  she 
had  dropped  out  of  his.  For  she,  too,  had  had  time 
to  repent.  Almost  before  the  blue  hills  of  Scotland 
had  dawned  upon  her  sight  she  had  repented  in  dust 
and  ashes.  How  foolish  she  had  been,  like  a  child 
who  throws  away  its  bread  in  a  pet  and  goes  to  bed 
hungry.  Why  had  she  not  worn  the  blue  ribbon  to 
please  her  lover  even  if  she  did  not  like  it  ?  As  for 
Jenny — but  what  nonsense  was  that !  she  would  have 
been  ashamed  of  Matt  if  he  had  not  been  kind  to 
her. 

To  be  sure  he  had  been  cross  and  had  thrown  away 
her  ribbon.  But  then  he  was  a  man — and  men  were 
strong  and  masterful  and  could  not  bear  contradiction, 
and  she  had  angered  him  by  her  foolish  persist- 
ence. 

Ah  !  if  she  could  but  undo  it  all  and  haVe  her  tall, 
brave,  handsome  lover  back  again. 

She  would  have  turned  round  and  gone  back  to 
Rysdyk  the  very  next  day  if  she  could  have  had  her 
way.  But  a  journey  was  a  journey  to  people  of  their 
rank  and  condition,  and  her  mother,  who  had  taken 
it  to  please  her  and  somewhat  against  her  own  will, 
was  not  to  be  blown  about  like  a  feather  by  her 
caprices.  She  had  suspected  a  love-quarrel  was  at  the 
bottom  of  Meg's  sudden  and  impetuous  desire  to  go 
immediately  on  a  visit  to  her  Aunt  Margaret  in  Kilmar- 


444  MEG. 

nock.  But  once  being  there  the  old  lady  was  deter- 
mined to  have  "  the  worth  of  her  money  "  before  she 
went  back.  She  could  nut  alford  to  go  jaunting  round 
the  country,  she  said,  as  if  she  were  the  queen  herself 
with  all  parliament  at  her  back.  When  she  had  had 
her  visit  out  she  would  go  home,  and  not  before. 
Meg  was  a  good  girl,  but  she  was  a  bit  hot-tempered. 
This  lesson  would  do  her  good. 

But  why,  do  you  ask,  did  not  Meg  write  to  her  lover, 
if  she  felt  she  had  been  in  the  wrong?  Ah,  why  do  not 
wiser  ones  than  she  always  do  the  best  thing,  the  right 
thing?  Besides,  she  was  a  woman,  and  a  proud  one. 
After  having  discarded  her  lover  she  would  not  forth- 
with fall  at  his  feet  and  ask  him  to  marry  her.  But, 
ah !  she  thought,  as  the  long,  slow  days  wore  on,  if  she 
were  only  with  him  again,  if  she  could  but  look  upon 
his  face  once  more,  he  would  know  all  without  the 
telling. 

There  was  another  reason.  Writing  was  a  hard  and 
unaccustomed  task.  She  could  not  talk  with  her  pen. 
Sometime,  if  the  good  God  would  let  her  see  Matt 
face  to  face,  she  might  be  able  to  explain.  But  she 
could  not  write. 

And  now,  after  all  the  months  of  waiting,  she  was 
back  in  Rysdyk,  but  he — he  was  in  America. 

It  was  as  if  he  had  gone  out  of  the  world.  One 
day  she  went  to  the  rectory  and  asked  Miss  Agnes  to 
let  her  look  at  a  map  of  America.  The  young  lady 
did  so,  and  showed  her  England,  also,  and  the  widt. 
waste  of  waters  that  lay  between  the  two.  What  a 
speck  England  was,  to  be  sure  !  Then  she  asked  to 
be  shown  Lake  Superior,  and  Miss  Agnes  pointed  it 
out,  wonderingly.  How  far  it  was  !  As  far  from  the 
seaboard,  almost,  as  the  width  of  the  Atlantic  it- 
self. 

She  turned  away  with  a  long,  shuddering  sigh. 
Hope  was  dead  within  her.  Matthew  Erickson  had 
gone  out  of  her  little  world  into  another  of  which  she 
knew  nothing.  He  would  have  been  nearer  if  he  had 
been  dead. 

Once  in  a  while,  as  the  years  went  on,  at  rare  inter- 
vals news  of  him  came  back  to  Rysdyk.  He  was  well ; 
he  had  fair  wages,  though  gold  was  not  to  be  had  for 
the  gathering  in  America  any  more  than  in  England ; 


BY  JULIA  C.  R.  DORR.  445 

he  had  been  promoted  and  had  charge  of  a  gang  of 
men.  At  length  there  was  a  long  interval  of  silence. 
Then  came  floating  rumors  of  ill ;  then  after  a  while  a 
letter  in  a  strange  handwriting,  a  letter  to  his  uncle, 
who  had  died  three  weeks  before  it  came.  There  had 
been  a  bad  accident  in  the  mines — an  explosion  ;  and 
in  the  effort  to  save  others  Matthew  Erickson  had 
himself  received  dangerous  injuries.  No  one  thought 
he  could  live.  But  now,  after  months,  he  was  slowly 
recovering,  if  recovery  it  could  be  called,  for  he  was 
blind.  The  poisonous  vapors  had  destroyed  his 
sight. 

It  was  five  years  since  he  went  away — five  years  that 
had  brought  many  changes  to  Meg.  It  was  a  sobered, 
thoughtful  woman,  not  a  hot-tempered  girl,  who  knelt 
by  the  Widow  Neale's  side  a  week  after  the  letter 
came  and  said  : 

"  Mother,  have  I  been  a  good,  faithful  child  to  you 
these  many  years  ? "  Her  mother  looked  at  her 
wonderingly.  Two  quiet  women  living  alone,  they 
were  not  in  the  habit  of  being  over  demonstrative. 

"  A  good  child  ?  Why  do  you  ask  that,  Meg  ? 
There's  not  a  better  in  all  Lancashire  !  " 

"  Have  I  ever  vexed  you  or  given  you  sorrow  ?  Tell 
me,  mother." 

"  No,"  said  the  Widow  Neale,  slowly.  "  Only — it 
vexes  me  that  you  will  not  marry.  An  old  maid's  no 
good,  and  you  know  that  two  of  the  best  men  in 
Rysdyk  worship  the  very  ground  you  tread  on  this 
day.  I  call  no  names  and  I  say  nothing.  A  woman 
must  answer  for  herself.  But  I  wish  you  were  married, 
Meg.  I've  saved  up  a  good  penny  for  your  dowry ; 
you  know  that." 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  her  lips  quivering. 

"  Whatever  was  the  reason  you  did  not  have  Matt 
Erickson  ?  "  her  mother  went  on  querulously.  "  You'd 
have  been  a  proud  wife  now,  and  he  here,  hale  and 
hearty." 

With  a  quick  gasp  Meg  threw  up  both  arms,  and 
than  buried  her  face  in  her  mother's  lap,  sobbing 
vehemently  while  the  latter  sat  aghast,  half  frightened 
at  the  storm  she  had  unwittingly  raised.  At  last  she 
touched  her  daughter's  hair  softly. 

"  Don't,  Meg,"  she  said.     "  I  did  not  mean  it." 


446  MEG. 

But  Meg  only  drew  the  wrinkled  hands  about  her 
neck  and  let  her  tears  flow  unchecked.  At  length  she 
looked  up. 

"  It  was  I  who  drove  him  away — Matt  Erickson," 
she  said.  "  We  had  a  little  quarrel,  just  a  few  idle 
words  about  a  ribbon,  and  I  told  him  in  my  silly  anger 
I  would  have  no  more  to  say  to  him  while  the  stars 
shone.  And  now  they  do  not  shine  for  him  for  he  is 
blind — blind.  O  mother,  I  cannot  live,  I  cannot  bear 
it!" 

"  Yes,  you  will  live,  child,"  the  widow  answered 
quickly.  "We  can  bear  anything,  we  women.  Your 
father  was  brought  in  to  me  dead — killed  in  these 
mines  when  you  were  scarce  three  years  old,  my  Meg, 
and  I  am  alive  yet." 

"  But  this  is  worse  than  death,"  she  cried  passion- 
ately. "  Mother,  do  you  hear  ?  He  who  was  my 
plighted  husband  is  blind,  in  a  far,  strange  country.  I 
must  go  and  bring  him  home,  home  to  Rysdyk." 

She  had  risen  from  her  mother's  arms,  and  stood 
before  her  in  the  moonlight,  pale,  resolute,  with  her 
hands  clasped  rigidly.  "  Give  me  my  dowry,  mother, 
and  let  me  go,"  she  said.  "  Do  not  deny  me  this 
thing.  I  am  well  and  strong  and,  if  I  do  say  it,  I  am 
quickwitted  I  can  make  my  way.  I  shall  come  back 
safely.  Let  me  go,  mother !  " 

"It  is  not  your  place,  Meg.  Let  some  one  else 
go." 

"  Who  ?  Tell  me  that !  Has  he  father  or  brother 
or  uncle  ?  Who  is  there  to  go  ?  " 

"  But — its  not  right  maidenly  to  go  off  after  a  lover, 
Meg.  What  will  the  folks  say?  And — would  you 
marry  a  blind  man  ? " 

"  Maidenly  ?  It  is  maidenly  to  do  right,"  said  Meg 
sturdily,  her  brown  cheek  flushing.  "  What  do  I  care 
for  the  folk  ?  I'm  not  a  young  girl  to  drop  my  eyes 
and  be  shamefaced  because  folk  will  talk.  They  al- 
ways talk.  And  as  for  marrying — it  is  not  of  marriage 
I  am  thinking  now ;  it  is  of  bringing  Matt  Erickson — 
he  whom  I  drove  away  by  my  ill  doings — back  safe  to 
his  own  country — " 

She  hesitated  a  moment  and  then  went  on  :     "  But 

not  play  false  with  you,  mother.     He'll  not  ask  me 

•*rry  him.     But  I  shall  know.     If  he  wants  me, 


BY  JULIA  C.  £.  DORR.  447 

after  all  that's  past,  he  shall  have  me,  and  I'll  take  care 
of  him  till  1  die." 

Their  talk  lasted  far  into  the  night.  But  with  it  we 
have  no  more  to  do,  nor  with  the  details  by  which  a 
little  money  was  to  be  made  to  go  a  great  way.  For, 
after  many  tears,  the  widow  consented  that  Meg  should 
take  her  dowry  and  spend  it  as  she  chose.  If  they  had 
been  more  worldly-wise  they  would  have  known  how  to 
accomplish  their  purpose  through  the  agency  of  others. 
As  it  was,  they  saw  no  other  way  than  for  Meg  to  do 
herself  the  thing  she  wanted  done. 

Oh,  that  weary,  weary  journey!  Why  was  the  world 
so  wide,  the  way  so  long  ?  Meg  kept  up  a  brave  heart 
until  the  boisterous  ocean  was  crossed,  and  she  had 
made  her  way  as  far  as  Buffalo,  where  she  had  been 
told  to  take  the  steamer  for  Marquette.  It  seemed  to 
her  that  she  had  travelled  the  width  of  the  whole  wide 
earth  already,  since  her  foot  first  fell  upon  the  soil  of 
the  strange  new  world. 

"  Is  this  Lake  Superior,  sir,"  she  asked  timidly  of  a 
policeman,  as  she  left  the  cars  and  saw  the  waters  of 
Lake  Erie  stretching  away  in  the  distance.  "And  can 
you  tell  me,  are  we  near  Ishpeming? 

"  Oh,  no,  my  girl,  this  is  Erie.  Lake  Superior  is  way 
up  north,  hundreds  of  miles  from  here.  Ishpeming  ? 
Never  heard  of  such  a  place.  But  here's  your  steamer 
if  you're  going  up  that  way." 

Her  heart  sank  like  lead.  Would  she  ever,  ever 
reach  the  end  ?  All  day  and  day  after  day  she  sat 
silently  in  the  bow  of  the  boat,  gazing  steadily  forward. 
On,  on,  till  Erie  was  passed, — on  through  lovely  St. 
Clair  with  its  softly  rounded  shores  and  fairy  islands, 
— then  up  through  Lake  Huron,  still  struggling  up,  as 
it  were,  past  towering,  frowning  heights,  past  stretches 
of  interminable  forest,  past  rocky  headlands,  past  sandy 
beaches,  through  tortuous  channels  and  devious  ways, 
into  the  wild  rapids  of  the  Sault  St.  Marie.  Then  at 
last  Superior!  grand,  weird,  majestic  in  its  awful 
silences,  sweeping  on  between  its  mighty,  far-stretching 
shores,  dark  as  the  ocean,  resistless  as  the  grave. 

Where  was  she  going  ?  Would  she  ever  find  Matt  ? 
Sailing  on  and  on — penetrating  nature's  secret  places 
where  the  foot  of  man  had  never  trodden.  So  it 
seemed  to  her.  Could  human  kind  live  in  these  vas* 
wild  wildernesses  ? 


448  MEG. 

It  was  like  a  new  birth  when  after  many  days  the 
steamer  entered  the  beautiful  bay  of  Marquette,  and 
the  fair  young  city  rose  before  her  astonished  eyes,  its 
white  cliffs  gleaming  in  the  sun,  its  green  shores  sweep- 
ing downward  to  the  water's  edge.  She  was  near  her 
goal  at  last. 

For  Ishpeming  was  but  twenty  miles  away  up  the 
railroad,  and  thither  she  went  by  the  first  train.  How 
rough  and  wild  it  all  was  !  And  how  the  charred  and 
blackened  pine  trees  towered  aloft  like  grim  giants,  and 
pointed  their  ghastly  fingers  at  her  as  she  swept  through 
their  solitudes ! 

"  Can  you  tell  me  where  to  find  a  man  called 
Matthew  Erickson  ? "  she  asked  of  the  depot-master, 
trembling  from  head  to  foot. 

"Erickson?  Erickson?  Blown  up  in  the  mines  a 
year  or  so  ago  wasn't  he  ?  He  stays  at  Sam  Ajres,  the 
Englishman's,  I  believe.  Just  yer  go  round  that  cor- 
ner, ma'am,  then  turn  to  the  right  and  go  up  the  hill — or 
stay  ?  Let  me  lock  up  here  and  I'll  go  with  you. 
Ever  been  in  Ishpeming  before  ?  No?  I  thought  you 
looked  like  a  stranger  in  these  parts." 

He  left  her  at  Sam  Ayres'  gate,  having  opened  it 
gallantly  when  he  saw  that  her  cold  fingers  were  unfit 
to  do  her  bidding.  A  kindly-faced  woman  came  to  the 
door  and  bade  her  welcome. 

Meg's  story  was  soon  told. 

"  And  you  have  come  alone  all  this  long  way  to  take 
Erickson  home  again  ?  "  her  eyes  filling.  "  God  bless 
you,  dear,  for  I'm  sure  He  sent  you.  We've  done  the 
best  we  could  for  him,  but — you  are  his  sister  ?  " 

"No.     I'm    a  friend — a  neighbor.     There  was  no 
one  else,"  she  said  simply. 
-  "  What's  your  name?     I'll  tell  him." 

"No  matter  about  the  name  ;  say  a  friend  from  the 
old  country." 

The  woman  came  back  presently, 

"  Be  careful,"  she  said,  "he's  weak  yet.  But  I  want 
to  tell  you  something  just  to  keep  your  heart  up,  for  he 
looks  like  a  ghost.  There  was  a  great  doctor  from 
New  York  up  here  last  week  to  look  at  his  poor  eyes, 
and  he  told  Sam  there  was  a  chance  for  him  yet — just 
one  chance  in  a  hundred." 
.  ."Does. he  know  it  ?"  asked  Meg,  tremulously,  her 


BY  JULIA  C.  R.  DORR.  449 

color  coming  and  going.  .  She  was  but  a  woman  after 
all.     Only  blindness  would  have  brought  her  there. 

"  No,  and  you  must  not  tell  him.  The  doctor  said 
so  most  particular.  Will  you  go  up  now  ?" 

He  had  been  sitting  in  the  sun  by  the  low  window 
all  day,  brooding,  brooding.  They  had  been  very  kind 
to  him,  these  people,  but  even  kindness  wears  itself 
out  after  awhile.  What  was  to  become  of  him  ?  The 
wages  he  had  laid  up  were  wasting  away.  The  early 
northern  winter  would  soon  set  in.  He  shivered  as  he 
thought  of  the  fierce  winds,  the  pitiless,  drifting  snows. 
There  was  nothing  a  blind  man  could  do  here.  If  he 
were  only  at  home  in  Rysdyk  !  Would  Meg  be  sorry 
for  him,  he  wondered,  if  she  knew  how  desolate  he 
was,  how  lonely  in  this  strange  land  ?  If  he  were  at 
home  he  could  learn  to  weave  baskets  like  old  Timothy. 
Here  he  was  just  a  dead  weight. 

Some  one  to  see  him  from  the  old  country? 

He  turned  his  sightless  eyes  towards  the  door  where 
Meg  was  entering  noiseless  as  a  spirit,  and  his  face 
kindled  eagerly.  Noiselessly  she  closed  the  door  be- 
hind her.  He  was  so  changed,  so  white  and  worn, 
that  her  own  heart  stopped  its  pulsations  for  a  moment. 
She  feared  any  sudden  shock  might  overcome  him. 
She  dared  not  speak  lest  he  should  know  her  voice. 
Strange  that  she  had  not  thought  of  this  before  ! 

He  put  out  his  hand  vaguely,  feeling  the  presence 
that  he  could  not  see. 

"  You  are  very  welcome,"  he  said.  "  But  I  do  not 
know  who  it  is.  Who  are  you  ?  " 

He  thought  it  was  some  kindly  Englishman,  who 
having  heard  of  his  misfortunes  had  come  to  speak  a 
word  of  cheer  and  comfort. 

She  gave  him  her  hand,  still  silently.  A  woman's 
hand  !  A  swift  thrill  shot  through  his  frame,  and  his 
face  flushed.  Holding  herself  still  with  a  mighty  effort, 
Meg  knelt  by  his  side,  laying  her  head  upon  his 
knee. 

His  hand  touched  her  hair,  her  forehead,  her  lips. 
She  gave  a  low  cry,  trembling  like  a  leaf. 

"  Speak  to  me,  quick,"  he  whispered  hoarsely. 

"  Matt !  " 

"  O  Meg,  Meg,  my  Meg ! " 
29 


.Dot. 


A  CONFEDERATE  IDYL. 


BY 


MARION  HARLAND. 


on<_ 
-  .".Dot. 


*••  •    *' 

<2/tstSs     /ffosr^A/isisi^,  d 

7  T 


MARION  HARLAND. 


MRS.  MARY  VIRGINIA  TERHUNE,  better  known  to  the 
reading  public  as  "  Marion  Harland,"  has  been  for 
the  last  three  years,  1885-1888,  a  resident  of  Brooklyn, 
N.  Y.,  her  husband,  the  Rev.  Dr.  Terhune,  being 
pastor  of  the  Bedford  Avenue  Reformed  Church  of  that 
city ;  previous  to  which  time  the  family  had  resided  for 
many  years  in  Newark,  N.  J.,  where  the  Doctor  was 
settled  over  a  large  prosperous  church.  Mrs.  Terhune 
is  a  lady  who  admirably  exemplifies  the  value  of  system 
in  her  literary  work  and  daily  life  ;  and  she  has  also 
discovered  the  secret,  unknown  to  so  many  Americans, 
how  to  accomplish  a  large  quantity  of  work,  literary, 
social,  and  religious  without  hurry,  or  nervous  excite- 
ment. 

In  1854,  the  New  York  publisher,  Mr.  Derby,  tells 
us,  a  gentleman  came  to  him  with  a  new  novel  entitled 
"  Alone."  This  was  Mr.  Samuel  P.  Hawes,  the  father 
of  Mrs.  Terhune.  This  book  had  already  been  printed 
in  Richmond,  Virginia,  but  to  be  printed  then  at  that 
time,  could  scarcely  be  considered  as  "  published/' 
This  proved  much  more  of  a  success  than  Mr.  Derby 
anticipated,  more  than  100,000  copies  of  the  English 
edition  having  been  sold  ;  and  it  was  afterwards  trans- 
lated into  German  for  the  famous  house  of  Tauchnitz 
at  Leipzig.  But  this  was  not  her  first  literary  work  :  at 
the  early  age  of  fourteen  she  had  contributed,  under  an 
assumed  name,  to  a  local  newspaper,  and  at  sixteen 
furnished  the  sketch  called  "  Marrying  for  Prudential 
Motives,"  for  Godey's  "  Lady's  Book." 

Mrs.  Terhune  has  written  much  and  well  on  house- 
hold topics,  and  other  suggestive  semi-ethical  works  in 
the  form  of  fiction  which  could  hardly  fail  to  exert  a 
wholesome  influence  on  young  girls  for  whom  they  are 
mostly  adapted.  Of  the  many  which  she  has  written 
"  Eve's  Daughters"  has  proved  the  most  popular. 
457 


458  MARION  HARLAND. 

The  rest  of  this  class  is  a  long  list;  of  them  we  name 
as  coming  next  in  interest,  the  "  Hidden  Path,"  "  From 
My  Youth  Up,"  "Husbands  and  Homes,"  "True  as 
Steel,"  and  "  Phemie's  Temptation."  Of  the  more 
directly  practical  works,  "  Common  Sense  in  the  House- 
hold "  is  perhaps  the  best  and  most  comprehensive. 

She  edits  a  monthly  magazine,  The  Home-maker, 
recently  established  in  New  York,  and  is  a  frequent 
contributor  to  newspaper  syndicates.  Mrs.  Terhune 
varies  her  literary  and  social  life  with  church  work, 
ably  assisting  her  husband  in  his  pastoral  duties  and 
in  instructing  a  Bible  class  of  young  man  connected 
with  the  church.  She  is  in  the  meridian  of  life,  happily 
circumstanced,  and  surrounded  by  a  family  of  grown 
up  children. 


A  CONFEDERATE  IDYL 


WE  had  been  "out"  all  day.  The  weather  was  soft 
for  November,  and  so  were  the  red  clay  roads.  Our 
boots,  worn  outside  of  our  trousers,  were  dyed  half- 
way up  the  legs,  and  as  stiff  as  mailed  greaves.  The 
trudge  through  the  adhesive  paste  was  so  disagreeable 
that  we  avoided  the  highways  when  we  could.  Miles  of 
tramping  at  the  heels  of  the  hounds  over  "old  fields," 
of  brown  straw  and  wheat  stubble,  and  wading  in  oozy 
swamps  criss-crossed  by  bamboo  briers,  brought  us  to 
our  quarters  at  nightfall,  exhausted  and  ravenous,  just 
as  a  leaden  pour  of  rain  began. 

The  house  was  vast  and  scantily  furnished.  The 
Richmond  citizen  who  had  bought  the  plantation  at  the 
close  of  the  war,  camped  down,  rather  than  lived  on  it, 
with  his  family  in  summer.  For  the  rest  of  the  year, 
the  overseer  and  his  wife  occupied  one  wing  leaving 
lofty  halls  and  wide  chambers  to  freezing  damps  and 
solitude. 

We  were  there  at  the  invitation  of  the  proprietor's 
son.  He  stood  at  one  corner  of  the  hearth,  leaning 
against  the  mantle,  pipe  in  hand.  We  had  supped 
upon  York  River  oysters,  wild  turkey  and  partridges, 
after  which  we  were  served  with  Powhatan  pipes  and 
prime  Richmond  manufactured  tobacco.  Not  a  man 
of  tw  would  touch  a  cigar  that  week.  The  table  was 
pushed  to  the  back  of  the  room  ;  a  mighty  blaze,  made 
lurid  by  lightwood  knots,  drew  up  the  chimney  with  a 
roar  like  that  of  a  steady  nor'easter.  The  evening 
had  begun  auspiciously.  Our  bodies  were  warm:d  and 
rested,  our  hearts  mellowed  by  good  cheer  and  jolly 
fellowship.  For  the  rest,  we  had  found  for  ourselves  by 
now  what  it  meant  to  be  Rob  Crutchfield's  guests. 

A  slight,  well-built  man  of  thirty-eight  or  forty,  but 
looking  at  least  five  years  younger,  he  was  to  the 
three  New  Yorkers  of  the  hunting  party  an  object  of 
459 


460  A  CONFEDERATE  IDYL. 

especial  attention  and  interest.  During  the  civil  war 
he  was  a  scout,  famous  in  both  armies  for  his  daring 
and  success,  his  risks  and  deliverances,  his  dashing 
exploits,  the  coolness  that  never  failed  him  in  the  face  of 
sudden  death,  and  his  generosity,  his  mad  frolics,  had 
been  the  boast  of  many  a  camp-fire  tale  and  post-bellum 
experience  meeting.  A  saber-gash  in  the  edge  of  the 
hair  above  his  forehead,  and  a  scarcely  perceptible  halt 
upon  the  right  thigh  as  he  walked,  were  visible  memen- 
tos of  hair-breadth  escapes,  "Rebellion  keepsakes" 
he  called  them.  In  demeanor  he  was  quietly  courteous, 
talking  easily  and  somewhat  slowly,  with  a  downward 
inflection  on  the  closing  words  of  the  sentence,  charac- 
teristic and  pleasing  when  we  became  accustomed  to 
it,  but  which  would  have  been  a  drawl  in  an  illiterate 
speaker.  He  had  the  mellow  voice  of  the  Southerner  ; 
accent  and  intonation  were  Virginian,  as  were  certain 
provincial  tricks  of  expression,  that  protracted  residence 
in  higher  latitudes  would  have,  corrected  or  modified. 
His  smile  was  singularly  pleasant,  lending  kindly  or 
humorous  gleams  to  deep-set  gray  eyes,  and  showing  a 
line  of  white  teeth  under  the  drooping  moustache. 

In  a  crowd  he  would  be  overlooked.  With  our 
knowledge  of  his  antecedents,  we  found  him  a  fascinat- 
ing study,  even  before  he  was  beguiled — ingeniously, 
for  his  modesty  was  proverbial — into  the  relation  of 
personal  adventures. 

Of  the  four  Virginians  present,  three  had  served 
through  the  war.  Two  of  the  Northerners  had  seen 
service.  To-night  the  desultory  after-supper  chat 
settled  down  after  a  while,  upon  the  relation  and  dis- 
cussion of  incidents  of  the  national  storm,  that  had 
blown  itself  out  into  the  tired  sobbings  of  the  van- 
quished, the  dignified  calm  of  the  victor,  fifteen  years 
before.  It  was  by  such  gradual  approaches  that  Rob 
Crutchfield  was  drawn  on  to  tell  the  longest  story  he 
had  yet  given  us : — 

"  If  my  memory  serves  me  correctly,  it  was  the  i4th 
or  i5th  of  December,  '63,  when  I  was  making  my  way 
back  to  camp  after  three  days  '  out.'  The  other  side 
had  had  the  best  of  it  that  year,  and  was  beginning 
to  knot  together,  length  by  length,  the  string  of  forti- 
fications meant  to  strangle  Richmond.  Inside  of  this 
line  was  stretched  ours.  I  thought,  sometimes,  when 


B  Y  MARION  HARLAND.  46 1 

I  got  far  enough  outside,  and  high  enough  up  to  look 
down  upon  the  two, — in  the  top  of  a  pine  tree,  on  a  high 
hill,  for  example — that  the  Rebel  camps  were  like  the 
ring  we  children  used  to  make  around  the  chicken  to 
keep  off  the  old  woman,  in  the  game  of  '  Chicken-me- 
chicken-me-crany-crow,' — hands  joined  all  around  and 
faces  towards  the  enemy.  I  was  not  in  a  fanciful 
mood  that  day,  however ;  I  had  been  sent  out  to  get 
certain  information  as  to  one  camp  in  particular,  and 
I  hadn't  got  it.  A  division  had  gone  into  winter 
quarters  in  exactly  the  most  inconvenient  posiiion  (for 
us)  they  could  have  selected.  A  mile  further  to  the 
east,  west,  north  or  south,  and  the  settlement  would 
have  been  no  more  to  us  than  a  dozen  others.  If  one 
of  you  gentlemen  had  to  sleep  in  a  fourih-story  room, 
you  wouldn't  think  comfortably  of  night  alarms  of  fire 
after  you  had  heard  the  key  turned  on  the  outside  of 
your  door,  you  might  not  care  to  leave  the  chamber 
before  morning,  but  in  case  you  should  ! — That  camp 
was  our  locked  door,  and  from  general  down  to  sutler 
we  regarded  it  as  the  ugliest  wart  on  the  face  of  the 
earth.  As  Dogberry  says,  '  It  was  tolerable  and  not 
to  be  endured.'  Every  man  of  us  felt  that  if  there  was 
such  a  thing  as  bursting  that  door  off  the  hinges,  he'd 
like  to  have  a  run  at  it. 

"  I  had  hung  about  the  skirts  of  the  encampment 
three  days  and  nights.  Fortunately,  the  weather  was 
very  mild.  Two  nights  I  slept  in  tobacco  barns,  the 
third  under  a  fodder-stack,  rolled  up  in  a  Federal 
military  overcoat." 

"The  one  you  wore  on  the  nor'ard  side  of  the 
big  rock?  "  asked  an  auditor,  quizzingly. 

Crutchfield's  eyes  twinkled. 

"The  same.  That  was  at  Chancellorsville, — I  was 
caught  between  the  two  lines.  There  was  an  immense 
boulder  with  a  fringe'  of  sassafras  and  chinquapin 
bushes  growing  around  the  base.  I  had  slept  among 
them  over  night,  being  on  scouting  duty  at  the 
time.  The  firing  awoke  me,  and  I  could  do  nothing 
but  lie  low  and  keep  dark  until  the  rumpus  was  over. 
1  had  on  gray  pantaloons  and  hunting-shirt  and  this 
overcoat.  Half  the  day  I  was  on  one  side  of  the  rock 
wrapped  up  in  the  blue  cloak,  out  of  compliment  to 
the  Feds  ;  the  other  half  on  the  opposite  side  in  my  shirt 


462  A  CONFEDERATE  IDYL. 

and  breeches,  because  the  Rebs  were  having  the  best 
of  it  in  that  direction.  It  was  the  liveliest  work  I  ever 
did  in  the  way  of  shifting  my  political  base.  The 
business  has  become  so  c.nnmon  in  Virginia  since 
that  I  have  given  it  up  as  low. 

"The  old  coat  was  to  serve  me  a  better  turn  on 
this  occasion.  For  half  a  mile  beyond  the  outer 
pickets  guarding  the  objectionable  camp,  the  woods 
had  been  cut  down,  the  tops  falling  upward.  This 
was  done  before  the  leaves  dropped,  and  they  were 
now  as  dry  and  crackly  as  so  many  pieces  of  writing 
paper.  I  might  as  well  have  fired  off  a  musket  to  give 
notice  of  my  approach,  as  try  to  creep  inside  the  lines 
through  this  chevaux  de  /rise.  I  was  lying  on  the 
ground,  as  cross  as  a  bear,  in  a  thicket  of  cedars  close 
to  the  road,  when  I  heard  somebody  whistling.  It's  a 
theory  of  mine  that  every  man,  however  near  akin  to  a 
fool,  Cfuld  do  some  one  thing  well  if  he  would  only 
give  his  mind  to  it.  The  weight  of  this  man's  intellect 
wouldn't  have  strained  the  back  bone  of  a  dragon  fly, 
bur  he  had  devoted  the  best  powers  of  it  to  one 
subject.  He  could  whistle  more  sweetly  and  clearly, 
and  could  hold  out  at  the  task  longer  than  any  creature 
I  ever  heard  attempt  it — wild  mocking-birds  and 
trained  bull-finches  not  excepted.  I  distinguished  the 
air,  in  the  dead  stillness  of  the  war-blasted  country 
while  he  was  an  eighth  of  a  mile  off.  It  was  the  '  Blue 
Danube  Waltz.' 

"  It  may  have  been  because  I  had  eaten  nothing 
that  day  but  two  hard-tack  biscuits  that  I  turned  sick 
all  over  and  seemed  to  hear  the  thud  of  my  heart  as  it 
dropped  suddenly  and  hit  hard.  The  cedar  bushes 
and  the  blue  sky  and  the  muddy  road  went  clean  away 
from  me,  and  I  was  whirling  around  the  ball-room  at 
Cape  May,  the  band  playing  the  'Blue  Danube  Waltz,' 
the  sea  booming  and  shining  in  the  moonlight  in  the 
distance  outside  the  windows,  and  Lucy  Deane  was  my 
partner.  Her  dress  was  some  sort  of  thin  stuff  that 
looked  like  cool,  pale,  purple  mist.  She  had  a  bunch 
of  heliotrope  in  her  belt.  I  begged  and  got  a  piece  of 
it  that  night  when  we  said  '  Good  night '  and  '  Good 
bye/  All  that  was  three  years  ago  last  August,  when 
I  was  twenty-three  and  she  twenty,  and  neither  of  us 
dreamed — much  as  we  were  given  to  dreaming — that 


B  Y  MARION  HARLAND.  463 

Lincoln  could  be  elected,  or  that  South  Carolina  would 
secede,  or  that  the  mouth  of  hell  might  gape  between 
us  before  the  Christmas  I  then  hoped  to  spend  in  New 
York.  Those  were  the  minutes  and  such  were  the 
thoughts  that  made  clean-mouthed  men  swear  in  those 
days. 

"  By  the  time  I  was  cool  and  steady  again  the  horse- 
man reined  up  in  the  road  not  three  yards  from  my 
cover.  '  What's  that  over  there  ? '  he  said,  sharply. 

"  I  was  sure  he  had  seen  me  through  the  cedars,  but 
I  had  not  scouted  for  two  years  not  to  learn  to  give 
myself  the  millionth  part  of  a  chance,  if  such  existed, 
and  I  lay  still.  " '  What,  sir  ? '  answered  a  voice  I 
took  to  be  that  of  an  orderly.  I  dared  not  stir,  but  1 
knew  both  speakers  were  Yankees. 

"'Those  things  that  look  like  fruit  on  those  trees.' 

"  '  Persimmons,  sir — a  sort  of  winter  plum  that  grows 
around  here.' 

"  '  Good  to  eat  ? ' 

" '  When  they'r  ripe,  sir — after  three  or  four  sharp 
frosts.  Then  they  are  real  sweet  and  nice.' 

"  '  Go  over  there  and  bring  me  a  handful.' 

"  As  the  orderly  lighted  1  twisted  my  head  around 
softly.  '  Over  there '  was  a  knoll  some  hundred  and 
fifty  yards  from  the  main  road,  across  a  gully  grown 
up  with  brushwood.  The  orderly  would  be  out  of  sight 
for,  maybe,  two  minutes  while  pushing  through  the 
bushes.  Unless  he  turned,  his  back  would  be  towards 
us  for  five.  If  we  could  get  away  unseen  by  him  I 
might  count  on  at  least  ten  minutes  start.  In  less 
than  fifteen  seconds  I  and  my  revolver  were  slaring 
into  the  officer's  face  across  the  orderly's  empty  saddle. 

"  '  If  you  speak  or  move  you  are  a  dead  man  ! '  was 
what  I  whispered,  and  the  pistol  silently  emphasized. 

"  Any  man  would  have  been  startled  in  the  circum- 
stances, even  if  his  holsters  hadn't  been  empty,  as 
I  had  seen  his  were.  Only  a  born  coward  would  have 
been  scared  so  far  out  of  his  senses  as  not  to  find  them 
again  under  an  hour.  No  corpse  ever  looked  up  at  me 
out  of  a  trench  the  day  after  a  battle  with  a  blanker 
gaze  and  whiter  face  than  did  my  prisoner.  His  teeth 
chattered,  and  I  could  almost  hear  his  knees  and  elbow- 
joints  rattle.  He  collapsed  into  a  loose  bunch.  I  was 
afraid  I  should  have  to  hold  him  on  his  horse.  After 


464  A  CONFEDERATE  IDYL. 

that  spectacle,  my  course  was  clear,  my  mind  perfectly 
easy.  I  kept  my  hand  on  his  bridle  for  the  first  mile, 
which  we  took  at  a  smart  trot  to  get  well  out  of  the 
orderly's  way.  Then  I  brought  both  horses  down  to  a 
walk,  and  took  a  good  look  at  my  prize.  Anything 
more  gorgeous  in  the  way  of  a  uniform  I  had  never 
seen  off  a  parrot's  back.  He  was  orange  and  blue 
from  top  to  toe.  An  orange  feather  in  a  blue  cocked 
hat ;  a  blue  body-coat  slashed  and  faced  with  orange ; 
orange  stripes  down  blue  breeches  ;  orange  lining  cuffs 
and  collar  to  his  cape  surtout.  There  were  actually 
sallow  streaks  in  his  blue-white  complexion. 

"'If  fine  feathers  make  fine  birds,  I  have  captured 
the  Yankee  peacock  of  the  walk ! '  thought  I. 

"  But  my  military  salute  was  given  in  good  faith  to 
the  prisoner  of  war — not  to  his  clothes. 

"  '  We  may  as  well  understand  one  another,  General,' 
said  I.  It  is  always  safe  on  an  uncertainty  to  rank  a 
fellow  well-up  the  line,  and  I  was  dazzled  into  a  notion 
that  I  might  have  in  tow  the  Commander-in-Chief  of 
the  United  States  Army. 

"  '  I  am  neither  guerilla  nor  highway  robber  nor 
yet  a  deserter  from  the  Federal  Army,  as  you  might 
suppose  from  my  coat,'  I  went  on  to  explain.  '  I  am  a 
Confederate  scout.  You  came  from  the  camp  on  the 
hill  over  yonder,  I  suppose  ? ' 

"  He  nodded,  still  tongue  tied. 

"  '  Now,  General,'  I  said,  slowly,  that  he  might  take 
it  all  in ;  'I  mean  to  use  you  as  my  safe-conduct 
through  that  camp.  I  know  just  what  my  life  is 
worth  if  I  am  caught  inside  your  lines  in  this  dress, 
just  a  trifle  more  than  yours  will  be  if  vou,  by  word, 
look  or  gesture  give  me  up.  Dead  or  alive,  I  am 
going  through  that  camp.  If  you  betrey  me  I  will 
make  a  run  for  life  and  liberty.  I've  been  in  nar- 
rower straits  than  that  and  got  off  scot-free.  But — 
I'll  drop  you  first,  certain !  I  never  miss  my  mark 
when  I  take  aim  in  earnest.  If  you  %o  quietly  along 
with  me  I  engage  you  shall  receive  no  damage  in  life 
or  limb.  Now,  I  expect  you  to  bear  yourself  like  a 
man  and  an  enlightened  citiztn  Gi  the  United  States, 
and  make  things  comfortable  ail  around  !' 

"  The  fellow's  brain  s?.iied  awkwardly  for  the  want 
of  ballast,  as  I  hare  intimated.  Bu't  he  had  the 


B  Y  MARION  HARLAND.  465 

instincts  of  a  gentleman,  and  acted  up  to  his  lights 
when  these  had  the  watch.  He  returned  my  salute, 
drew  out  his  sword  and  offered  it  to  me. 

"  '  Keep  it ! '  I  said.  '  I  hope  you'll  live  to  draw  it 
in  a  better  cause  than  that  which  made  you  buckle  it 
on.' 

"  By  your  leave,  gentlemen," — bowing  to  us — "  I'll 
tell  this  story  in  the  jargon  of  the  '  unreconstructed.' 
That  was  the  way  we  all  talked — and  felt — at  that  date. 
You  wouldn't  have  respected  us  if  we  had  turned  our 
pipes  a  stop  lower." 

The  trio  of  Northerners  applauded  re-assuringly. 

"  All  right !     Go  ahead  !  "  added  one. 

"That  was  what  we  did — the  general  and  I.  Half  a 
a  mile  further  on  we  espied  a  picket  strolling  leisurely 
from  one  tree-stump  to  another  and  basking  in  the 
sun. 

' '  What's  your  countersign  ? '    asked  I  of  my  friend. 

"  For  one  second  the  thought  that  fright  had  driven 
it  out  of  his  head  took  my  breath  away.  In  the  next 
he  had  caught  at  it. 

"  '  Give  it !  '  said  I,  as  we  reached  the  picket,  and  he 
minded  me  without  an  objection. 

"We  passed  the  inner  line  of  posts  in  the  same  man- 
ner, and  rode,  side  by  side,  into  the  heart  of  the  camp, 
I  on  the  general's  right,  the  bridle  in  my  left  hand, 
the  cape  of  the  overcoat  drawn  forward  over  the  right 
arm  which  was  crossed  on  my  chest.  The  right  hand 
held  the  revolver.  It  covered  him  at  half-cock  all  the 
time  and  my  finger  was  on  the  trigger.  It  was  a 
model  encampment  for  neatness  and  order,  military 
discipline  of  the  best  kind  and  sanitary  provisions. 
Health,  comfort,  and  quiet  reigned  supreme.  But  I 
made  at  least  one  valuable  discovery,  the  force  sta- 
tioned there  had  been  greatly  over-estimated  by  us. 
The  hut  doors  were  folded  back,  the  day  being  Spring- 
like, and  nearly  everybody  was  out  of  doors. 

"  When  those  we  met  and  passed  saluted  my  general 
— or  his  clothes — I  humbly  touched  my  cap,  proud  to 
be  the  attendant  of  His  Magnificence.  He  kept  his 
eyes  fixed  upon  his  horse's  ears,  noticing  nothing  and 
nobody,  but  when  we  had  gone  at  a  snail's  trot  down 
one  road,  and  up  another  and  around  by  a  third  to 
the  other  side  of  the  camp  and  passed  the  last  picket, 
30 


466  A  CONFEDERATE  IDYL. 

I  saw  that  he  held  his  lower  lip  hard  under  his  teeth 
and  his  face  was  red  with  rage  and  mortification. 

"  I  was  sorry  for  him  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart. 
So  sorry  that  had  it  not  been  for  what  he  could  tell 
of  my  reconnoissance  and  its  object,  I  would  have  sent 
him  back  then  and  there  to  beautify  the  scene  we  had 
just  left.  As  it  was,  I  carried  him  into  our  lines  and 
gave  him  up,  with  my  report,  at  headquarters. 

"An  hour  afterwards  a  saucy  lieutenant  came  to  my 
hut,  roaring  with  laughter. 

" '  You've  done  it  this  time,  Crutch,'  said  the  rascal. 
'  Do  you  know  what  you've  brought  in  ?  The  colonel 
of  a  Yankee  play-regiment — a  three  monther.  It  seems 
he  left  his  men  in  Washington  to  be  drilled  and  ran 
down  in  his  Sunday  clothes  to  visit  a  sure-enough  camp, 
where  he  happened  to  have  acquaintances,  bringing  his 
own  orderly  with  him.  They  got  there  yesterday  and 
started  off  this  morning  to  see  something  of  the 
country.  Didn't  dream  they  were  on  rebel  territory 
until  he  was  taken  prisoner  by  what  he  must  consider 
an  unmilitary  manoeuvre.  Wants  to  be  sent  back  with 
an  apology  under  flag  of  truce.  Has  influential  friends 
under  government  who  will  not  -submit  tamely  to  this 
outrage. 

"  '  If  you  had  fetched  in  his  uniform  stuffed  with  straw 
it  would  have  been  of  more  account  to  us.  We  could 
have  stuffed  our  beds  with  that.  This  creature  is  not 
worth  the  keeping  and  we  daren't  turn  him  loose.  The 
last  batch  of  Yanks  were  sent  forward  to  the  Libby  last 
night,  so  your  friend  will  be  lonesome  I'm  afraid. 
When  I  left,  the  general  was  swearing  like  forty 
troopers  because  a  guard  must  be  detailed  to  take  care 
of  this  "sugar-candy  cuss."  You've  drawn  a  white 
elephant,  my  boy  ! ' 

'•  That  was  the  origin  of  the  name  that  stuck  to  the 
fellow  like  shoemaker's  wax.  We  were  hard-run  for 
jokes  just  then,  and  this  one  took  tremendously.  I 
wished  a  thousand  times  a  day  I  had  left  the  orange-and- 
blue  parrot  to  devour  half-ripe  persimmons  until  his 
mouth  was  puckered  out  of  whistling  order  for  a  month 
of  Sundays.  The  prison  barracks  was  called  the 
menagerie,  and  I,  Barnum,  and  the  usual  salutation 
between  two  men  meeting  in  my  hearing  was,  ' 
have  you  seen  the  elephant  ? ' 


B  Y  MARION  HARLAND.  467 

"  It  took  more  moral  courage  than  you'd  believe 
to  spur  me  up  to  the  duty  of  visiting  him  every  clay, 
and  there  was  nothing  tempting  in  the  calls  themselves. 
For  a  few  days  he  was  as  sulky  as  a  possum,  wouldn't 
eat  or  speak  when  anybody  was  by ;  just  lay  on  his 
bunk  with  his  face  to  the  wall.  I  took  him  books 
and  tobacco  and  writing  materials  (such  as  we  had), 
and  spoke  to  the  guard  about  treating  him  well.  1 
couldn't  do  less— having  got  him  into  the  scrape. 
I  would  have  done  much  more  to  make  his  situation 
endurable,  if  he  had  let  me.  On  the  first  Sunday 
he  spent  with  us,  I  found  him  up  and  writing. 

"  He  glanced  around  and  nodded  to  my  salute. 

"'Well,  Colonel,'  said  J,  'How  goes  it?  What  can 
I  do  for  you,  to-day  ? ' 

"  '  I  want  to  send  a  letter  through  the  lines.'  He 
was  gruff,  but  not  sullen.  '  I  guess  you  can  do  it,  if 
anybody  can ! ' 

'*  I  tried  not  to  smile. 

" '  I  don't  know  about  that !  Your  pickets  are  on 
the  lookout  for  me  just  now,  I  reckon,  and  not  in  a 
humor  for  the  exchange  of  civilities.  I  have  known 
them  on  both  sides  to  swap  newspapers  and  tobacco  by 
pitching  them  across  a  road  or  creek.  There  are  ways 
and  means,  however.  I'll  do  my  best  to  get  your 
letter  through  by  what  we  call  the  '"  grapevine  tele- 
graph." ' 

"  He  stared  hard,  but  only  said,  '  Thank  you  ! ' 

"  Presently  he  handed  me  a  letter  directed  to  '  Mrs. 
Colonel  George  W.  Judson,  Orange,  New  Jersey.' 

" '  I  thought  you  were  a  New  Yorker  ! '  said  I,  be- 
fore I  remembered  that  it  was  impolite  to  see  the 
address,  more  rude  to  remark  upon  it. 

"  But  the  '  Orange,  New  Jersey,'  caught  my  eye,  and 
there  were  reasons  why  it  should. 

"  He  scowled,  as  was  natural  and  proper,  at  my  im- 
pertinence. 

"  '  My  wife  is,  at  present,  staying  at  her  father's — 
during  my  absence.' 

"  He  jumped  up  and  walked  to  the  door. 

"  '  I  have  a  confounded  headache  to-day  ! '  he  said 
In  a  choked  voice. 

"  I  had  to  remind  myself  of  the  preparations  on  foot 
to  break  up  the  obnoxious  camp  founded  upon  my 


468  A  CONFEDERATE  IDYL. 

reconnoissance  and  report  before  I  could  feel  like  an 
honest  man  again,  and  not  a  kidnapper. 

"'  I  am  mighty  sorry  for  you,  Colonel — upon  my  word 
I  am!'  I  told  him  in  all  sincerity.  'I  wish  it  hadn't 
been  a  military  necessity  to  capture  you,  and  against 
military  rules  to  set  you  free  this  very  minute.'  Then 
— clumsily  enough,  but  I  didn't  know  just  how  to  fetch 
it  out — '  I  am  sorrier  still  that  you  are  married.  Sol- 
diers ought  all  to  be  single  men.' 

"  He  wheeled  about,  red  and  angry — spoke  up  more 
like  a  man  than  I  had  thought  was  in  him. 

" '  My  wife  and  I  agreed  when  the  North  was  in- 
vaded, that  that  was  carrying  the  joke  a  little  too  far — 
that  it  was  time  United  States  citizens  of  wealth  and 
influence  took  the  field.  I  raised  my  regiment,  sir. 
If  every  Northern  man  would  exert  himself  as  I  have 
done  the  Rebellion  would  be  stamped  out  in  ninety 
days ! ' 

"  'Upon  my  soul,  I  reckon  you're  about  right,'  said 
I,  and  I  was  sincere  in  that,  too.  'Mrs.  Judson  has 
cause  to  be  proud  of  having  married  a  true  patriot. 
She  must  be  a  noble  woman.' 

'"There  isn't  another  like  her  in  the  universe!'  he 
burst  out,  choked  up  again,  threw  himself  face  down- 
ward on  his  bunk,  and  cried  like  a  whipped  school- 
boy. 

"It  was  my  turn  to  look  out  of  the  door.  The 
prospect  wasn't  inspiriting  at  its  best,  but  I  couldn't 
see  it  very  distinctly  now.  I  don't  think  it  is  in  the 
nature  of  a  sheep-stealing  dog  to  feel  meaner  than  I 
did  at  that  particular  minute.  I'd  have  given  a  year  of 
my  life — right  out — to  be  able  to  transport  that  over- 
grown baby,  who  meant  well  as  hard  as  ever  a  man 
did,  to  the  house  of  his  father-in-law,  and  leave  him 
there.  He  loved  his  country  and  he  loved  his  wife, 
and  his  wife,  for  aught  I  knew,  might  live  next  door  to 
Lucy  Deane,  whose  home  was  in  Orange,  New  Jersey. 
Military  necessity  was  inhumanity,  and  I  was  a  brute. 

"  The  prison  barracks  were  removed  by  four  or  five 
rods  from  the  main  camp.  It  was  a  rough  log  shanty, 
long  and  narrow,  the  chinks  daubed  with  mud.  At 
one  end  was  a  log  and  mud  chimney,  at  the  other  the 
door ;  cotton  cloth  was  tacked  over  the  window  frames 
to  keep  out  the  wind.  A  soldier  would  have  been 


B  Y  MARION  HARLAND.  469 

satisfied  with  such  winter  quarters.  But  bless  your 
heart !  there  was  not  an  ounce  of  soldierhood  in  that 
fellow's  body,  whatever  there  might  be  in  his  soul. 
While  he  cried  out  his  homesickness,  I  stood  with  my 
back  to  him,  staring  at  the  waste  of  red  mud  around  me 
on  which  the  rain  was  beginning  to  make  desolate- 
looking  puddles.  The  camp-collection  of  tents  and 
log-huts  was  mean  and  dreary.  The  smoke  from 
stove-pipes  and  chimneys  dropped  flat  to  the  ground  ; 
half-a-dozen  drenched  sentinels  were  all  the  moving 
things  in  sight.  A  grove  of  pine  trees  flanked  us  on 
the  right ;  'way  beyond  were  brown-black  hills  covered 
with  mournful  stumps.  And  behind  me  the  man  I  had 
snatched  from  the  paradise  in  which  he  wore  orange 
and  blue,  and  fine  linen,  and  fared  on  canvas-back 
ducks,  turtle  soup,  and  champagne  every  day,  was  sob- 
bing for  the  young  wife  waiting  in  her  father's  house 
(in  Orange,  New  Jersey)  for  his  return,  crowned  with 
.aurels  and  such  trash,  by  a  grateful  country.  She 
vould  never  have  let  him  enter  the  army  if  she  hadn't 
believed  as  sublimely  and  idiotically  as  she  did  in  his 
ability  to  stamp  out  the  Rebellion  in  ninety  days. 
Othev  men  with  more  brains  held  the  same  belief, 
even  a*.  Nate  as  '63. 

"  By-^  i-by  he  called  out  to  me  : 

" '  You  take  me  for  a  coward  and  a  baby,  Mr. 
Crutchfieul ! '  he  said,  trying  to  seem  dignified.  '  But 
my  nerves  have  been  severely  tried  lately,  and  I  am 
far  from  well.  This  is  not  a  dry  location,  and  I  have 
taken  a  heavy  cold.  My  head,  limbs,  and  back  ache 
intensely.  I  seldom  give  way  to  emotion.  I  have 
myself  in  excellent  control  usually— excellent ! ' 

"I  told  all  the  kind  lies  inevitable  in  the  circum- 
stances, and  set  myself  to  work  to  cheer  him  up.  I 
had  a  roaring  fire  made  in  the  chimney,  hunted  up  a 
sutler,  and  paid  ten  dollars  (Confederate)  for  enough 
ground  (alleged)  coffee  to  make  him  a  cup  of  hot 
drink  ;  finally,  invited  myself  to  dine,  and  sent  for  a 
double  mess  to  be  brought  to  me  there.  The  colonel 
thawed  out  completely  under  this  process  ;  was  friendly 
and  forgiving,  and  talked  like  a  house  afire.  Politics 
was  the  first  topic  ;  then  he  gave  me  the  whole  history 
of  his  life,  at  length  and  in  detail ;  how  his  father  was  a 
rich  merchant ;  where  he  went  to  school  and  college  ; 


47O  A  CONFEDERATE  IDYL. 

and  how  and  when  he  had  gone  into  business  with  his 
father ;  how  he  had  met  and  fallen  in  love  with  her  in 
'61,  and  married  her  on  the  2oth  of  June,  '62  ;  of  the 
house  built  by  his  father  and  furnished  by  hers — and 
so  forth  and  so  on,  until  I  might  have  thought  he  was 
drunk  if  there  had  been  a  chance  of  his  getting  at  any- 
thing stronger  than  the  (alleged)  coffee. 

"  I  bore  it  all  like  a  saint — or  the  narrator's  wife — 
until  dark.  Then  I  ordered  in  a  big  heap  of  lightwood 
knots  to  scare  away  the  blue  devils  I  was  afraid  might 
return  when  I  left,  shook  hands  with  the  colonel  and 
hoped  he  might  sleep  well.  His  hands  were  hot  and 
dry,  his  eyes  watery. 

"  '  I  believe  you  have  taken  cold  ! '  said  I.  '  I'll  look 
in  after  supper  and  see  how  you  are  getting  on.' 

"  '  You  are  awfully  good,'  said  he.  '  Hold  on  a  bit ! ' 
fumbling  in  his  breast-pocket.  '  I  wouldn't  show  it  to 
another  Grayback  alive.  But  you  have  a  man's  heart, 
by  Jove  !  and  I  want  you  to  see  what  justification  I 
have  for  giving  way  as  I  did  awhile  ago.  '  Tisn't  like 
me  to  give  way,  Mr.  Crutchfield,  I  have  myself  in 
excellent  control,  as  a  rule — excellent!  My  wife's 
picture,  sir  ! ' 

"  It  was  set  in  a  pocket-case  of  velvet  and  gold,  and 
painted  on  ivory,  and  as  surely  as  he  and  I  were  stand- 
ing together  in  that  Heaven-forsaken  mud-hole  in  the 
wilderness,  Lucy  Deane's  face  was  inside  of  that 
frame  !  " 

Not  a  word  was  spoken  in  the  barn-like  room  as 
Crutchfield  stooped  for  the  tongs  and  a  live  coal  to  lay 
on  the  fresh  tobacco  with  which  he  filled  his  pipe.  His 
hand  shook ;  he  drew  strongly  and  quickly  on  the 
stem,  until  the  tobacco  was  ignited. 

"  I'm  a  rank  fool — I  know.  No  man  knows  it  better  ; 
for  I  am  shivery  and  achey  all  over  to  this  day,  when 
I  recollect  what  shot  through  me  as  the  glare  of  the 
lightwood  fell  on  that  picture.  I  held  it  with  both 
hands  to  steady  it  for  a  fair  look.  Lucy's  blue  eyes — 
just  the  color  of  the  summer  sky,  that  was  so  fair 
above  us  that  August  holiday.  Lucy's  hair,  rippling 
about  her  forehead  and  looking  like  a  madonna's  glory 
in  the  sunshine.  Lucy's  small  red  mouth.  Lucy's 
smile !  Hadn't  I  got  the  whole  inventory  by  heart 
during  the  month  I  spent  at  the  Seagate  of  heaven  in 


B  Y  MARION  HARLAND.  471 

1860  ?  Having  seen  and  talked  with  her  on  an  average 
four  hours  a  day  for  thirty  days,  and  dreamed  of  her 
by  night  and  day  ever  since,  was  it  likely  I  should 
make  any  mistake  as  to  identity,  yet  I  made  certain  of 
this.  Straightening  myself  up — the  bending  down  to- 
ward the  fire  ha  1  cramptd  me  queerly — I  said  : 

"  '  I  could  be  sure  I  had  seen  this  face  before.  It 
reminds  me  of  a  young  lady  I  met  at  Cape  May  in  1860. 
By  the  way,  she  was  from  New  Jersey,  a  Miss 
Deane.' 

" '  Good  gracious,  man  !  why  that  was  her !  Her 
maiden  name  was  Deane,  and  she  used  to  spend  a 
month  or  so  every  summer  at  Cape  May.  I  remember 
hearing  her  tell  of  the  splendid  time  she  had  that  very 
year.  Of  all  the  coincidences! ' 

"  I  got  away  somehow,  1  hope,  decently.  When  I 
found  Rob  Crutchfield  again  he  was  marching,  like 
a  sentirrel,  backward  and  forward,  on  the  earthwork 
surrounding  the  camp,  saying  over  and  over  like  a 
befuddled  donkey — 'Of  all  the  coincidences!  of  all 
the  coincidences ! ' 

"  I  had  so  few  wits  left  that  I  could  have  sworn  I 
smelt  heliotrope — the  spiced  vanilla  scent  it  gives  out 
in  a  warm  room  when  beginning  to  droop  in  a  woman's 
belt  or  hand.  I  understood  the  illusion  in  another 
minute.  Somebody  somewhere  was  whistling  '  The 
Blue  Danube  Waltz.'  It  sounded  like  a  funeral  march 
where  I  was.  The  wet  pine  tops  complained  together 
on  one  side  of  me ;  on  the  other  the  camp  lights 
twinkled  through  the  drizzle  like  drowning  lightning 
bugs.  A  burying  ground  with  a  dozen  new  graves 
gaping  for  tenants  would  have  been  cheerful  by  com- 
parison with  my  location  and  the  morgue  that  was  a 
young  man's  heart  two  or  three  hours  ago.  Mad  with 
pain  I  rushed  down  the  earthwork  and  through  the 
mud  and  fog  to  the  barracks.  The  door  was  wide 
open ;  that  was  the  reason  I  heard  the  whistle  so 
plainly.  A  broad  streak  of  lurid  light  struck  through 
the  fine,  close  rain,  and  turned  the  puddles  to  blood. 
My  prisoner  was  sitting  on  the  block  of  wood  that 
served  him  for  a  chair  in  front  of  the  fire,  on  which  he 
had  piled  all  the  lightwood  at  once,  whistling  as  for  a 
wager  of  ten  thousand  dollars  (hard  money  or  green- 
backs) a  side. 


472  A  CONFEDERATE  IDYL. 

"  I  shook  him  by  the  shoulder. 

"'  Stop  that  infernal  racket ! ' 

"  He  laughed  foolishly,  hugged  his  knees  with  his 
locked  arms. 

"  Why,  that's  Lucy's  favorite  waltz.  You  ought  to 
hear  her  play  it  once.  Lucy's  a  capital  performer  on 
the  piano.  Beats  Herz  and  Liszt  and  the  rest  of  the* 
professionals  all  hollow  ! ' 

"  He  was  crazy  with  fever.  I  called  in  an  orderly  and 
between  us  we  got  him  to  bed,  then  the  orderly  ran  for 
the  surgeon. 

"'In  for  pneumonia'  was  his  opinion  that  night. 
'  Likely  to  be  a  bad  case,  too  ! ' 

"  By  ten  o'clock  next  morning  he  had  a  different 
tale  to  tell. 

"  '  You've  done  it  for  yourself,  this  time,  young  man,' 
he  said,  just  as  that  rascally  lieutenant  had  done. 
'  Here's  the  devil  to  pay.  You've  drawn  a  white 
elephant  with  a  vengeance.  This  is  small-pox  1  And 
you've  stayed  with  him  all  night !  You  may  be  a 
Christian.  You  are  certainly  a  confounded  greenhorn. 
What's  this  Yank  to  you  that  you  should  run  the  risk 
of  spoiling  your  manly  beauty  or' — with  a  savage 
growl — '  what  is  more  to  the  purpose,  of  depriving  the 
Confederate  army  of  a  capital  scout  ?  This  is  what 
comes  of  your  blamed  officiousness.  I  have  a  great 
mind  to  send  you  to  the  guard-house.' 

"  You  never  saw  a  madder  man,  nor  one  more 
disgusted.  You  might  have  thought  that  I  had 
manufactured  the  patient  and  his  disease,  or  imported 
both  with  malice  prepense. 

"  I  stood  stupefied,  staring  at  the  inflamed  face  and 
glassy  eyes  on  the  corn-shuck  pillow.  It  was  lumpy, 
and  he  rolled  his  head  uneasily. 

"'What  is  this  man  to  me?'  I  repeated.  'My 
enemy,  Doctor!  There's  no  doubt  about  that !'  and, 
stuttering  along,  by  mechanical  memory  of  good 
words  my  mother  taught  me  when  a  boy,  '  My  enemy  ! 
sick  and  in  prison  and  athirst !  So  I'll  give  him  drink 
and  stay  here  and  take  care  of  him.  As  you  say,  I'm 
in  for  it  and  may  as  well  take  my  chances  here  as 
in  the  guard-house.' 

"They  quarantined  us,  of  course,  and  I  had  in 
addition  the  pleasant  consciousness  that  everybody 


B  Y  MARION  HARLAND.  473 

held  me  responsible  for  bringing  that  much  dreaded 
plague  into  the  camp,  and  echoed  the  doctor's 
curses  upon  my  officiousness.  For  three  weeks  I 
touched  no  human  hand  except  the  patient's,  the 
doctor's  and  that  of  the  orderly,  who  had  helped  me 
put  Judson  to  bed  the  night  he  was  taken  ill.  The 
fellow  had,  luckily,  had  the  small-pox.  For  the  time 
this  circumstance  was  the  only  ray  of  light  I  could 
discern  upon  present  and  future. 

"  No,  gentlemen  !  "  For  there  was  audible  movement 
of  sympathv  and  admiration — "  there  was  nothing  noble 
or  commendable  in  my  action.  I  simply  did  not  care 
at  that  time  whether  1  lived  or  died.  Sometimes,  on 
nights,  when  I  sat  up  alone  with  the  frightful  object 
his  wife  wouldn't  have  known  for  the  superb  Hercules 
she  had  married,  the  deadened  heart  within  me  would 
warm  and  stir  under  the  thought  that  she  might  owe 
his  life  to  me  ;  that  I  could  do  this  one  thing  for  her  ; 
that  if  she  hadn't  forgotten  me  utterly,  she  might  even 
guess  that  I  had  tended  him,  not  as  a  Christian  should 
the  creature  made  in  the  image  of  their  common  Cre- 
ator,— but  for  her  sake.  It  wasn't  a  lofty  motive.  It 
may  not  have  been  an  honorable  or  a  manly  impulse, 
but  I  submit  that  it  was  a  natural  and  powerful  one. 
With  me  it  prevailed  over  loathing  and  selfish  ease  and 
loneliness,  kept  me  from  flinching  when  things  were  at 
their  worst.  I  never  knew  how  love  for  that  girl  had 
grown  into,  and  wound  roots  about  every  fibre  of  my 
being,  until  the  horrid  ordeal  of  those  three  weeks 
tested  it. 

"  There  was  a  brisk  skirmish  that  came  near  being 
a  general  engagement — while  we  were  shut  off  from 
the  world.  The  camp  I  had  entered  was  surprised  by 
night,  and  after  some  hours  fighting,  the  Federals  were 
driven  back  to  a  position  more  comfortable  for  them 
and  for  us.  Our  men  had  the  longed-for  chance  to  set 
their  shoulders  against  the  locked  door,  and  it  went 
down  under  the  rush.  The  commanding  general  sent 
me  a  kind  note  the  next  morning,  acknowledging  the 
important  service  I  had  rendered  the  government  and 
army,  by  the  valuable  information  I  had  secured  in 
my  brilliant  and  daring  exploit.  I  read  it  at  Judson's 
bedside,  and  threw  it  into  the  fire.  I  was  very  low  of 
heart  that  day. 


474  A  CONFEDERATE  IDYL. 

"  Last  week  I  saw  my  three-year  old  boy,  when  3 
plaything  that  wasn't  his  was  taken  from  him,  dash 
himself  on  the  floor,  and  holloa  and  kick  at  the  offer  of 
another  and  a  better  toy.  If  he  couldn't  have  what  he 
had  set  his  heart  and  head  on,  he  wanted  nothing,  and 
looked  upon  even  his  mother's  comforting  as  an  insult. 
I  thought  at  the  time  that  I  knew  just  how  he  felt.  I 
was  hardly  more  than  a  boy  when  I  ate  my  Sunday 
dinner  in  the  prison  barracks,  and  amiably  swallowed 
my  yawns,  as  Colonel  G.  W.  Judson  spun  love  and 
political  yarns.  I  came  out  of  my  month's  quarantine 
grave,  steady  and  unhopeful.  1  had  been  badly  hurt. 
When  the  right  eye  is  plucked  out,  or  the  right  hand 
struck  off,  the  nervous  system  feels  the  jar  long  after 
the  wound  has  healed  up. 

"  For  two  weeks  it  had  been  an  even  chance  with  a 
slight  tilt  on  the  wrong  side,  whether  my  man  lived  or 
died.  In  all  these  fourteen  days  he  had  not  a  lucid 
moment,  and  all  the  time  he  was  whistling  or  going 
through  the  motions. 

"  You  may  laugh,  but  it  was  the  most  drearsome 
thing  you  can  conceive  of.  His  eyes  were  swollen 
shut,  his  lips  were  parched  and  black,  but  he  pursed 
them  together  for  waltzes,  psalm-tunes,  negro  melodies, 
marches,  quicksteps,  sonatas  and  '  movements,'  by  the 
score  and  hundred,  a  maddening,  diabolical  medley, 
until  I  thought  he'd  whistle  away  his  immortal  soul. 
He  never  held  up,  except  when  he  was  asleep,  until  the 
fever  in  going  off,  left  him  too  weak  to  do  so  much 
as  a  bar  of  '  Yankee  Doodle.' 

"  He  was  just  able  to  travel  when  we  broke  camp  in 
March  and  fell  back  to  Richmond.  In  April  there  was 
an  exchange  of  prisoners,  and  I  strained  all  the  poor 
influence  I  possessed  to  have  him  included.  He  was 
wonderfully  little  disfigured  by  the  disease — I  suppose 
because  he  war  too  busy  whistling  to  tear  at  his  face 
with  his  nails.  We  had  a  capital  surgeon,  too.  as  skil- 
ful as  he  was  rough  spoken,  and  he  had  used  every  pos- 
sible means  to  save  the  colonel's  good  looks.  When  I 
parted  with  him  at  the  Richmond  depot,  saw  the  tears 
in  his  eyes,  and  heard  his  voice  break  as  he  said  '  fare- 
well,' I  thanked  God,  fervently,  thnt  since  the  infec- 
tion was  in  his  veins  before  I  met  and  took  him  pris- 
oner, he  had  been  given  into  my  hands,  I  had  nursed 


BY  MARION  HARLAND. 


475 


him  as  I  would  my  brother — for  his  wife's  sake.  That 
he  would  never  know  and  I  never  forget.  He  was 
very  grateful.  There  was  never  a  better-hearted  fel- 
low. 

"'  As  I  had  to  be  sick  among  strangers,  its  deuced 
lucky  you  happened  to  get  hold  of  me,'  were  his  last 
words.  '  But  for  you,  my  poor  girl  would  be  a  widow 
instead  of  expecting  her  husband  home.  I  shall  never 
forget  your  goodness  and  shall  love  you  forever  when 
I've  told  her  all  about  it.' 

"  In  damp  weather,  the  maimed  limb  aches  and 
throbs.  The  neuralgic  twinges  of  thought  went  through 
me,  as  he  said  that.  The  reflection  that  once — and 
not  so  long  ago — that  was  not  the  argument  I  had 
hoped  to  use  to  win  Lucy  Deane  to  love  me  forever. 

"This  was  in  the  spring  of  '64.  In  April  '65,  I  went 
home  for  good  and  all,  with  a  pass  signed  by  U.  S. 
Grant,  U.  S.  A.,  in  my  pocket. 

"  In  May,  I  received  a  letter  from  Judson,  directed  to 
my  father's  care.  He  had,  this  stated,  written  to  me 
several  times  by  flag  of  truce,  but  I  had  not  heard  from 
him  since  our  parting,  a  year  before.  He  was  sure 
this  would  reach  me  if  1  »were  alive,  and  he  desired  to 
put  his  purse,  house  and  business  influence  at  my 
service.  There  was  a  flourish  of  compassionate  patron- 
age throughout  the  epistle  that  sat  ill  upon  the  stomach 
of  a  defeated  rebel,  but  the  honest  good-will  and  sin- 
cere gratitude  of  the  writer  were  yet  more  apparent. 

"The  last  page  was  written  by  a  woman,  I  saw  that 
as  I  turned  the  leaf,  and  I  had  to  lay  the  letter  on  the 
table  to  read  the  rest,  so  severe  was  the  remembered 
and  familiar  neuralgic  twinge.  All  women  write  pretty 
much  alike  nowadays,  and  what  I  call  the  "hickory 
splint  hand."  I  had  two  or  three  notes  trom  Lucy 
Deane  in  reply  to  invitations,  gifts  of  flowers  and 
the  like,  and  recognized  the  chirography  at  once. 

"  '  My  Dear  Mr.  Crutchfield  ' — it  began — '  although 
I  never  had  the  great  pleasure  of  meeting  you  in 
person,  I  must  call  you  a  dear  friend,  because  you 
were  so  good  to  my  darling  husband.' 

"I  declare  to  you,  gentlemen,  that  was  the  worst  cut 
of  all — a  savage  jagged  tear  with  a  rusty  blade.  I  was 
as  a  dead  man,  out  of  mind  with  the  only  woman  I  had 
ever  loved — the  woman  for  whom — 


476  A  CONFEDERATE  IDYL. 

"  I  got  up  and  stamped  about  the  floor  like  one 
demented.  Up  to  that  instant  I  had  kept  my  respect  for 
her  if  she  had  married  a  handsome,  rich  gas-bag.  She 
was  never  bound  to  me,  although  she  must  have  known 
that  I  loved  her,  and  no  girl  ever  forgets  the  man  who 
has  once  made  love  to  her.  But  to  disown  our  acquaint- 
anceship, perhaps  because  her  darling  husband  was  to 
read  what  she  wrote  to  the  dear  friend  who  had  been 
so  good  to  him  was  worse  than  ungrateful.  It  was 
unwomanly.  Ah,  well !  I  had  worshipped  my  ideal 
— that  was  all.  Now  let  us  see  what  the  real  Lucy 
Deane  Judson  had  to  say  further. 

"It  was  a  neat  cut-and-dried  note,  commonplace  to 
the  last  degree  of  inaneness,  dotted  with  adjectives  of 
gratitude  and  endearment,  stuck  in  with  the  regularity 
of  the  pins  in  '  Welcome,  Little  Stranger  ! '  on  a  baby's 
pincushion.  It  was  signed  '  L.  D.  Judson.'  The 
signature  set  the  tombstone  above  my  dead-and-buried 
love. 

"  I  was  folding  up  the  letter — a  sadder  and  a  cured 
man — when  I  espied  a  postscript  squeezed  into  the 
margin  at  the  side  and  top  of  the  first  page: 

"  '  My  favorite  sister  Lucy,  who  remembers  with  great  pleasure 
her  former  delightful  acquaintance  with  you  at  dear  Cape  May, 
sends  her  kind  regards.     My  blessed  George  says  you  thought 
my  picture  very  like  her.     She  is  ever  so  much  prettier  than 
'  Yours  gratefully 

•LAURA  D.  J V 

The  narrative  was  broken  short  by  round  after 
round  of  applause  from  hands  and  feet.  The  only 
bachelor  of  the  party  jumped  upon  a  chair  and  waved 
his  pipe  above  his  head,  huzzahing  lustily.  When 
comparative  silence  was  restored,  Crutchfield  rapped 
out  the  dead  ashes  from  the  bowl  of  his  "  Powhatan  " 
upon  the  hearthstone  ;  arose,  glad  and  benignant,  bow- 
ing his  thanks. 

"Gentlemen,  my  friends,  one  and  all,  we  return  to 
town  day  after  to-morrow.  On  that  evening  I  hope  to 
see  each  member  of  this  goodly  company  at  my  dinner- 
table.  Mrs.  Crutchfield  resembles  her  sister,  George 
Washington  Judson's  wife,  in  one  respect,  she  is 
always  happy  to  claim  her  husband's  friends  as  her 


Transcendental  Wild  Oats, 


BY 


LOUISA  M.  ALCOTT. 


LOUISA  MAY  ALCOTT. 

LOUISA  MAY  ALCOTT  was  the  daughter  of  Amos  Bron- 
son  Alcott,  and  his  wife,  Abagail  May.  She  was  born 
at  Germantown,  Pa.,  on  the  thirty-third  anniversary  of 
her  father's  birth,  November  29,  1832.  When  she  was 
eight  years  of  age  she  became  a  resident  of  Concord, 
Mass.,  where  she  spent  the  greater  portion  of  her  life. 
Her  instructors  were  her  father  and  mother,  and 
Henry  Thoreau.  Mr.  Alcott  was  a  famous  teacher, 
abolitionist,  and  intimate  friend  of  Emerson's.  He 
did  not  join  the  Brook  Farm  community,  but  in 
1843  started  a  similar  colony  at  Fruitlands,  Harvard, 
Mass.  The  life  of  the  family  while  there  is  described 
in  "  Transcendental  Wild  Oats,"  the  story  which  Miss 
Alcott  selected  for  this  volume  in  February,  1888, 
shortly  before  her  death.  On  their  return  to  Concord 
they  lived  at  the  cottage  called  "  The  Wayside,"  after- 
ward purchased  by  Hawthorne.  Subsequently  they 
resided  at  "  The  Orchards." 

Miss  Alcott  wrote  her  first  poem  when  she  was  eight 
years  old,  and  her  first  book,  called  "  Flower  Fables  " 
was  published  in  1855.  Meanwhile  she  wrote  a  great 
number  of  short  stories  for  various  periodicals.  Her 
first  novel,  called  "  Moods,"  was  severely  criticised. 
She  taught  school,  was  a  governess  for  a  time,  and 
kept  at  her  pen  work  continuously.  When  the  war 
broke  out  she  went  to  Washington  and  became  a  hos- 
pital nurse.  Overworking,  she  fell  a  victim  to  typhoid 
ever,  and  came  near  to  death.  She  recovered,  but 
never  was  entirely  well  again.  Her  second  book 
related  her  experiences  as  a  nurse,  and  was  called 
•;  Hospital  Sketches." 

In   1867   she   published  "  Little  Women,"  her  most 

famous   book,  and    two   years    later   issued  "  An  Old 

Fashioned  Girl."     Her  third  work  was  "  Little  Men," 

which  had  nearly  as  great  a  success.     This  latter  book 

483 


484  LOUISA  MAY  ALCOTT. 

was  written  in  Rome,  during  a  second  foreign  tour 
made  by  Miss  Alcott ;  her  first  journey  was  under- 
taken in  1865,  in  company  with  an  invalid  lady  with 
whom  she  went  as  a  companion.  Of  her  later  works, 
"  Aunt  Jo's  Scrap  Bag  "  (in  six  volumes)  ;  "  Work,  a 
Story  of  Experience  "  ;  "  Eight  Cousins  "  ;  "  Rose  in 
Bloom  "  ;  "  Under  the  Lilacs  "  ;  "  Proverb  Stories  "  ; 
"  Spinning-Wheel  Stories  " ;  and  "  Lulu's  Library," 
are  equally  popular.  Her  great  success  as  an  author 
enabled  her  to  provide  generously  for  her  aged  father — 
whose  writings  were  not  as  successful  as  his  daugh- 
ter's— and  to  do  a  great  deal  of  good  in  many  direc- 
tions. 

Personally,  Miss  Alcott  was  a  noble  woman,  well 
educated  and  cultivated.  Her  associations  from  her 
childhood  were  with  a  circle  of  rarely-gifted  men  and 
women,  and  she  enjoyed  the  life-long  friendship  of  Mr. 
Emerson.  She  made  a  fortune  from  her  writings,  and 
dispensed  it  with  generous  hand.  Her  devotion  to 
her  kindred  was  a  beautiful  trait  in  her  character.  She 
once  said  that  her  destiny,  it  seemed  to  her,  was  to  fill 
the  gaps  in  life  :  she  had  been  a  wife  to  her  father  ;  a 
mother  to  the  orphaned  daughter  of  her  sister  May, 
while  still  daughter  and  sister  and  friend  as  well.  In 
her  girlhood  and  youth  she  was  a  devoted  daughter  to 
her  mother,  whose  hard  struggle  to  rear  her  children 
and  maintain  the  home  she  fully  realized,  and  when 
she  was  no  more  needed  by  her  family,  she  helped 
public  movements  and  individuals  as  long  as  she  lived. 
Miss  Alcott  did  more  than  any  other  American  woman 
to  elevate  the  juvenile  literature  of  her  day,  and  when 
she  died,  February  29,  the  day  after  the  death  of  her 
venerable  father,  her  country  people  mourned  as  for  a 
familiar  friend,  whose  like  they  should  no  more  greet 
in  literature  for  the  young. 


TRANSCENDENTAL  WILD  OATS. 


ON  the  first  day  of  June,  184-,  a  large  wagon  drawn 
by  a  small  horse  and  containing  a  motley  load,  went 
lumbering  over  certain  New  Phigland  hills,  with  the 
pleasing  accompaniments  of  wind,  rain,  and  hail.  A 
serene  man  with  a  serene  child  upon  his  knee  was 
driving,  or  rather  being  driven,  for  the  small  horse  had 
it  all  his  own  way.  A  brown  boy  with  a  William  Penn 
style  of  countenance  sat  beside  him,  firmly  embracing 
a  oust  of  Socrates.  Behind  them  was  an  energetic- 
looking  woman,  with  a  benevolent  brow,  satirical 
mouth,  and  eyes  brimful  of  hope  and  courage.  A 
baby  reposed  upon  her  lap,  a  mirror  leaned  against  her 
knee,  and  a  basket  of  provisions  danced  about  her 
feet,  as  she  struggled  with  a  large,  unruly  umbrella. 
Two  blue-eyed  little  girls,  with  hands  full  of  childish 
treasures,  saf  under  one  old  shawl,  chatting  happily 
together. 

In  front  of  this  lively  party  stalked  a  tall,  sharp- 
featured  man,  in  a  long  blue  cloak  ;  and  a  fourth  small 
girl  trudged  along  beside  him  through  the  mud  as  if 
she  rather  enjoyed  it. 

The  wind  whistled  over  the  bleak  hills  ;  the  rain  fell 
in  a  despondent  drizzle,  and  twilight  began  to  fall. 
But  the  calm  man  gazed  as  tranquilly  into  the  fog  as  if 
he  beheld  a  radiant  bow  of  promise  spanning  the  gray 
sky.  The  cheery  woman  tried  to  cover  every  one  but 
herself  with  the  big  umbrella.  The  brown  boy  pil- 
lowed his  head  on  the  bald  pate  of  Socrates  and  slum- 
bered peacefully.  The  little  girls  sang  lullabies  to 
their  dolls  in  soft,  maternal  murmurs.  The  sharp- 
nosed  pedestrian  marched  steadily  on,  with  the  blue 
cloak  streaming  out  behind  him  like  a  banner;  and  the 
lively  infant  splashed  through  the  puddles  with  a  duck- 
like  satisfaction  pleasant  to  behold. 

Thus  the  modern  pilgrims  journeyed  hopefully  out 
485 


486         TRANSCENDENTAL  WILD  OATS. 

of  the  old  world,  to  found  a  new  one  in  the  wilder- 
ness. 

The  editors  of  the  "  Transcendental  Tripod  "  had 
received  from  Messrs.  Lion  and  Lamb  (two  of  the 
aforesaid  pilgrims)  a  communication  from  which  the 
following  statement  is  an  extract ; — 

"We  have  made  arrangements  with  the  proprietor  of 
an  estate  of  about  a  hundred  acres  which  liberates  this 
tract  from  human  ownership.  Here  we  shall  prosecute 
our  effort  to  initiate  a  Family  in  harmony  with  the 
primitive  instincts  of  man. 

"  Ordinary  secular  farming  is  not  our  object.  Fruit, 
grain,  pulse,  herbs,  flax,  and  other  vegetable  products, 
receiving  assiduous  attention,  will  afford  ample  manual 
occupation,  and  chaste  supplies  for  the  bodily  needs. 
It  is  intended  to  adorn  the  pastures  with  orchards,  and 
to  supersede  the  labor  of  cattle  by  the  spade  and  prun- 
ing-knife. 

"Consecrated  to  human  freedom,  the  land  awaits 
the  sober  culture  of  devoted  men.  Beginning  with 
small  pecuniary  means,  this  enterprise  must  be  rooted 
in  a  reliance  on  the  succors  of  an  ever-bounteous  Prov- 
idence, whose  vital  affinities  being  secured  by  this 
union  with  uncorrupted  fields  and  unworldly  persons, 
the  cares  and  injuries  of  a  life  of  gain  are  avoided. 

"  The  inner  nature  of  each  member  of  the  Family  is 
at  no  time  neglected.  Our  plan  contemplates  all  such 
disciplines,  cultures,  and  habits  as  evidently  conduce 
to  the  purifying  of  the  inmates. 

"  Pledged  to  the  spirit  alone,  the  founders  anticipate 
no  hasty  or  numerous  addition  to  their  numbers.  The 
kingdom  of  peace  is  entered  only  through  the  gates  of 
self-denial ;  and  felicity  is  the  test  and  the  reward  of 
loyalty  to  the  unswerving  law  of  love." 

This  prospective  Eden  at  present  consisted  of  an 
old  red  farm-house,  a  dilapidated  barn,  many  acres  of 
meadow-land,  and  a  grove.  Ten  ancient  apple-trees 
were  all  the  "chaste  supply,"  which  the  place  offered 
as  yet;  but  in  the  firm  belief  that  plenteous  orchards 
were  soon  to  be  evoked  from  their  inner  consciousness, 
these  sanguine  founders  had  christened  their  domain 
Fruitlands. 

Here  Timon  Lion  intended  to  found  a  colony  of 
Latter  Day  saints,  who,  under  his  patriarchal 


BY  LOUISA  M.  ALCOTT.  487 

sfcould  regenerate  the  world  and  glorify  his  name  for- 
ever. Here  Abel  Lamb,  with  the  devoutest  faith  in 
the  high  ideal  which  was  to  him  a  living  truth,  desired 
to  plant  a  Paradise,  where  Beauty,  Virtue,  Justice  and 
Love  might  live  happily  together,  without  the  possibil- 
ity of  a  serpent  entering  in.  And  here  his  wife,  uncon- 
verted but  faithful  to  the  end,  hoped,  after  many 
wanderings  over  the  face  of  the  earth,  to  find  rest  for 
herself  and  a  home  for  her  children. 

"There  is  our  new  abode,"  announced  the  enthu- 
siast, smiling  with  a  satisfaction  quite  undamped  by  the 
drops  dripping  from  his  hat-brim,  as  they  turned  at 
length  into  a  cart  path  that  wound  along  a  steep  hill- 
side into  a  barren-looking  valley. 

'*  A  little  difficult  of  access,"  observed  his  practical 
wife,  as  she  endeavored  to  keep  her  various  household 
gods  from  going  overboard  with  every  lurch  of  the 
laden  ark. 

"  Like  all  good  things.  But  those  who  earnestly 
desire,  and  patiently  seek  will  soon  find  us,"  placidly 
responded  the  philosopher  from  the  mud,  through 
which  he  was  now  endeavoring  to  pilot  the  much- 
enduring  horse. 

"Truth  lies  at  the  bottom  of  a  well,  Sister  Hope," 
said  Brother  Timon,  pausing  to  detach  his  small  com- 
rade from  a  gate,  whereon  she  was  perched  for  a 
clearer  gaze  into  futurity. 

"That's  the  reason  we  so  seldom  get  at  it,  I  sup- 
pose," replied  Mrs.  Hope,  making  a  vain  clutch  at  the 
mirror,  which  a  sudden  jolt  sent  flying  out  of  her 
hands. 

"  We  want  no  false  reflections  here,"  said  Timon, 
with  a  grim  smile,  as  he  crunched  the  fragments  under 
foot  in  his  onward  march. 

Sister  Hope  held  her  peace,  and  looked  wistfully 
through  the  mist  at  her  promised  home.  The  old  red 
house  with  a  hospitable  glimmer  at  its  windows  cheered 
her  eyes ;  and  considering  the  weather,  was  a  fitter 
refuge  than  the  sylvan  bowers  some  of  the  more  ardent 
souls  might  have  preferred. 

The  new-comers  were  welcomed  by  one  of  the  elect 
precious — a  regenerate  farmer,  whose  ideas  of  reform 
consisted  chiefly  in  wearing  white  cotton  raiment  and 
shoes  of  untanned  leather.  This  costume  with  a 


488  TRANSCENDENTAL   WILD  OATS. 

snov.-y  beard,  gave  him  a  venerable,  and  at  the  same 
time  a  somewhat  bridal  appearance. 

The  goods  and  chattels  of  the  society  not  having 
arrived,  the  weary  family  reposed  before  the  fire  on 
blocks  of  wood,  while  Brother  Moses  White  regaled 
them  on  roasted  potatoes,  brown  bread  and  water,  in 
two  plates,  a  tin  pan,  and  one  mug;  his  table  service 
being  limited.  But,  having  cast  the  forms  and  vanities 
of  a  depraved  world  behind  them,  the  elders  welcomed 
hardship  with  the  enthusiasm  of  new  pioneers,  and  the 
children  heartily  enjoyed  this  foretaste  of  what  they 
believed  was  to  be  a  sort  of  perpetual  picnic. 

During  the  progress  of  this  frugal  meal,  two  more 
brothers  appeared.  One,  a  dark,  melancholy  man, 
clad  in  homespun,  whose  peculiar  mission  was  to  turn 
his  name  hind  part  before  and  use  as  few  words  as 
possible.  The  other  was  a  blond,  bearded  English- 
man, who  expected  to  be  saved  by  eating  uncooked 
food  and  going  without  clothes.  He  had  not  yet 
adopted  the  primitive  costume,  however;  but  con- 
tented himself  with  meditatively  chewing  dry  beans  out 
of  a  basket. 

"  Every  meal  should  be  a  sacrament,  and  the  vessels 
used  should  be  beautiful  and  symbolical,"  observed 
Brother  Lamb,  mildly,  righting  the  tin  pan  slipping 
about  on  his  knees.  "  I  priced  a  silver  service  when  in 
town,  but  it  was  too  costly  ;  so  I  got  some  graceful 
cups  and  vases  of  Britannia  ware." 

"  Hardest  things  in  the  world  to  keep  bright.  Will 
whiting  be  allowed  in  the  community?"  inquired 
Sister  Hope,  with  a  housewife's  interest  in  labor-sav- 
ing institutions. 

"Such  trivial  questions  will  be  discussed  at  a  more 
fitting  time,"  answered  Brother  Timon,  sharply,  as  he 
burnt  his  fingers  with  a  very  hot  potato.  "Neither 
sugar,  molasses,  milk,  butter,  cheese,  nor  flesh  are  to 
be  used  among  us,  for  nothing  is  to  be  admitted  which 
has  caused  wrong  or  death  to  man  or  beast." 

"Our  garments  are  to  be  linen  till  we  learn  to  raise 
our  own  cotton  or  some  substitute  for  woolen  fabrics," 
added  Brother  Abel,  blissfully  basking  in  an  imaginary 
future  as  warm  and  brilliant  as  the  generous  fire  be- 
fore him. 


B Y  LOUISA  M.  jic'rrr.  489 

"  Haou  abaout  shoes  ? "  as'^d  I*rv>v"  Moses,  sur- 
veying his  own  with  interest. 

"We  must  yield  that  point  till  we  cap  manufacture 
an  innocent  substitute  for  leather.  B?.rk,  wood,  or 
some  durable  fabnc  will  be  invented  in  time.  Mean- 
while, those  who  <iesire  to  cany  out  our  idea  to  the 
fullest  extent  can  go  barefooted,1'  said  Lion,  who  liked 
extreme  measures. 

"  I  never  will,  nor  let  my  girls/'  murmured  rebellious 
Sister  Hope,  unaei  her  breath." 

"  Haow  clo  you  cattie'ate  to  treat  the  ten-acre  lot  ? 
Ef  things  ain't  'tended  to  right  smart,  we  shan't  hev  no 
crops,"  observed  the  practical  patriarch  in  cotton. 

"  We  shall  spade  it,"  replied  Abel,  in  such  perfect 
good  faith  that  Moses  said  no  more,  though  he  in- 
dulged in  a  shake  of  the  head  as  he  glanced  at  hands 
that  had  held  nothing  heavier  than  a  pen  for  years. 
He  was  a  paternal  old  soul,  and  regarded  the  younger 
men  as  promising  boys  on  a  new  sort  of  lark. 

"What  shall  we  do  for  lamps,  if  we  cannot  use  any 
animal  substance  ?  I  do  hope  light  of  some  sort  is  to 
be  thrown  npon  the  enterprise,"  said  Mrs.  Lamb  with 
anxiety,  for  in  those  days  kerosene  and  camphene  were 
not,  and  gas  was  unknown  in  the  wilderness. 

"We  shall  go  without  till  we  have  discovered  some 
vegetable  oil  or  wax  to  serve  us,"  replied  Brother 
Timon,  in  a  decided  tone,  which  caused  Sister  Hope 
to  resolve  that  her  private  lamp  should  always  be 
trimmed,  if  not  burning. 

"  Each  member  is  to  perform  the  work  for  which 
experience,  strength  and  taste  best  fit  him,"  continued 
Dictator  Lion.  "  Thus  drudgery  and  disorder  will  be 
avoided  and  harmony  prevail.  We  shall  rise  at  dawn, 
begin  the  day  by  bathing,  followed  by  music,  and  then 
a  chaste  repast  of  fruit  and  bread.  Each  one  finds 
congenial  occupation  until  the  meridian  meal,  when 
some  deep-searching  conversation  gives  rest  to  the 
body  and  development  to  the  mind.  Healthful  labor 
again  engages  us  till  the  last  meal,  when  we  assemble 
in  social  communion  prolonged  till  sunset,  when  we 
retire  to  sweet  repose,  ready  for  the  next  day's  activ- 
ity.'' 

"  What  part  of  the  work  do  you  incline  to  yourself  ?  " 


490  TRANSCENDENTAL   WILD  OATS. 

asked  Sister  Hope,  with  a  humorous  glimmer  in  her 
keen  eyes. 

"  I  shall  wait  till  it  is  made  clear  to  me.  Being  in 
preference  to  doing  is  the  great  aim,  and  this  comes  to 
us  rather  by  a  resigned  willingness  than  a  wilful  activ- 
ity, which  is  a  check  to  all  divine  growth,"  responded 
Brother  Timon. 

"  I  thought  so."  And  Mrs.  Lamb  sighed  audibly, 
for  during  the  year  he  had  spent  in  her  family,  Brothel 
Timon  had  so  faithfully  carried  out  his  idea  of  "  being, 
not  doing  "  that  she  had  found  his  "divine  growth" 
both  an  expensive  and  unsatisfactory  process. 

Here  her  husband  struck  into  the  conversation,  his 
face  shining  with  the  light  and  joy  of  the  splendid 
dreams  and  high  ideals  hovering  before  him. 

"  In  these  steps  of  reform,  we  do  not  rely  so  much 
on  scientific  reasoning,  or  physiological  skill  as  on  the 
spirit's  dictates.  The  greater  part  of  man's  duty  con- 
sists in  leaving  alone  much  that  he  now  does.  Shall 
I  stimulate  with  tea,  coffee,  or  wine  ?  No.  Shall  I 
consume  flesh  ?  Not  if  I  value  health.  Shall  I  sub- 
jugate cattle  ?  Shall  I  claim  property  in  any  created 
thing  ?  Shall  I  trade  ?  Shall  I  adopt  a  form  of  relig- 
ion ?  Shall  I  interest  myself  in  politics  ?  To  how 
many  of  these  questions, — could  we  ask  them  deeply 
enough — and  could  they  be  heard  as  having  relation 
to  our  eternal  welfare— would  the  response  be 
'  Abstain  ?  '  " 

A  mild  snore  seemed  to  echo  the  last  word  of  Abel's 
rhapsody,  for  Brother  Moses  had  succumbed  to  mundane 
slumber  and  sat  nodding  like  a  massive  ghost.  Forest 
Absalom,  the  silent  man,  and  John  Pease,  the  English 
member,  now  departed  to  the  barn  ;  and  Mrs.  Lamb 
led  her  flock  to  a  temporary  fold,  leaving  the  founders 
of  the  "  Consociate  Family  ;'  to  build  castles  in  the  air 
till  the  fire  went  out  and  the  symposium  ended  in 
smoke. 

The  furniture  arrived  next  day,  and  was  soon  be- 
stowed ;  for  the  principal  property  of  the  community 
consisted  in  books.  To  this  rare  library  was  devoted 
the  best  room  in  the  house,  and  the  few  busts  and 
pictures  that  still  survived  many  flittings  were  added 
to  beautify  the  sanctuary,  for  here  the  family  was  to 
meet  for  amusement,  instruction,  and  worship. 


BY  LOUISA  M.  ALCOTT.  491 

Any  housewife  can  imagine  the  emotions  of  Sister 
Hope,  when  she  took  possession  of  a  large,  dilapidated 
kitchen,  containing  an  old  stove  and  the  peculiar 
stores  out  of  which  food  was  to  be  evolved  for  her 
little  family  of  eleven.  Cakes  of  maple  sugar,  dried 
peas  and  beans,  barley  and  hominy,  meal  of  all  sorts, 
potatoes  and  dried  fruits.  No  milk,  butter,  cheese, 
tea,  or  meat  appeared.  Even  salt  was  considered  a 
useless  luxury  and  spice  entirely  forbidden  by  these 
lovers  of  Spartan  simplicity.  A  ten  years'  experience 
of  vegetarian  vagaries  had  been  good  training  for  this 
new  freak,  and  her  sense  of  the  ludicrous  supported 
her  through  many  trying  scenes. 

Unleavened  bread,  porridge  and  water  for  break- 
fast ;  bread,  vegetables  and  water  for  dinner ;  bread, 
fruit  and  water  for  supper  was  the  bill  of  fare 
ordained  by  the  elders.  No  tea-pot  profaned  that 
sacred  stove,  no  gory  steak  cried  aloud  for  vengeance 
from  her  chaste  gridiron  ;  and  only  a  brave  woman's 
taste,  time  and  temper  were  sacrificed  on  that  domestic 
altar. 

The  vexed  question  of  light  was  settled  by  buying  a 
quantity  of  bayberry  wax  for  candles;  and,  on  discov- 
ering that  no  one  knew  how  to  make  them,  pine  knots 
were  introduced,  to  be  used  when  absolutely  necessary. 
Being  summer,  the  evenings  were  not  long,  and  the 
weary  fraternity  found  it  no  great  hardship  to  retire 
with  the  birds.  The  inner  light  was  sufficient  for  most 
of  them  ;  but  Mrs.  Lamb  rebelled.  Evening  was  the 
only  time  she  had  to  herself,  and  while  the  tired  feet 
rested,  the  skilful  hands  mended  torn  frocks  and  little 
stockings,  or  anxious  heart  forgot  its  burdens  in  a 
book. 

So  "mother's  lamp"  burnt  steadily,  while  the  philos- 
ophers built  a  new  heaven  and  earth  by  moonlight ; 
and  through  all  the  metaphysical  mists  and  philan- 
thropic pyrotechnics  of  that  period  Sister  Hope  played 
her  own  little  game  of  "  throwing  light,"  and  none  but 
the  moths  were  the  worse  for  it. 

Such  farming  was  probably  never  seen  before  since 
Adam  delved.  The  band  of  brothers  began  by  spad- 
ing garden  and  field  ;  but  a  few  days  of  it  lessened 
their  ardor  amazingly.  Blistered  hands  and  aching 
backs  suggested  the  expediency  of  permitting  the  use 


492  TRANSCENDENTAL  WILD  OATS. 

of  cattle  till  the  workers  were  better  fitted  for  noble 
toil  by  a  summer  of  the  new  life. 

Brother  Moses  brought  a  yoke  of  oxen  from  his  farm 
— at  least,  the  philosophers  thought  so  till  it  was  dis- 
covered that  one  of  the  animals  was  a  cow ;  and 
Moses  confessed  that  he  "  must  be  let  down  easy,  for 
he  couldn't  live  on  garden  sarse  entirely." 

Great  was  Dictator  Lion's  indignation  at  this  lapse 
from  virtue.  But  time  pressed,  the  work  must  be 
done ;  so  the  meek  cow  was  permitted  to  wear  the 
yoke  and  the  recreant  brother  continued  to  enjoy  for- 
bidden draughts  in  the  barn,  which  dark  proceeding 
caused  the  children  to  regard  him  as  one  set  apart  for 
destruction. 

The  sowing  was  equally  peculiar,  for  owing  to  some 
mistake,  the  three  brethren  who  devoted  themselves  to 
this  graceful  task,  found  when  about  half  through  the 
job  that  each  had  been  sowing  a  different  sort  of  grain 
in  the  same  field ;  a  mistake  which  caused  much  per- 
plexity as  it  could  not  be  remedied ;  but,  after  a  long 
consultation,  and  a  good  deal  of  laughter,  it  was  de- 
cided to  say  nothing  and  see  what  would  come  of  it. 

The  garden  was  planted  with  a  generous  supply  of 
useful  roots  and  herbs;  but,  as  manure  was  not 
allowed  to  profane  the  virgin  soil,  few  of  these  vege- 
table treasures  ever  came  up.  Purslane  reigned  su- 
preme, and  the  disappointed  planters  ate  it  philosophi- 
cally, deciding  that  Nature  knew  what  was  best  for 
them,  and  would  generously  supply  their  needs,  if  they 
could  only  learn  to  digest  her  "sallets"  and  wild  roots. 

The  orchard  was  laid  out,  a  little  grafting  done,  new 
trees  and  vines  set,  regardless  of  the  unfit  season  and 
entire  ignorance  of  the  husbandmen,  who  honestly  be- 
lieved that  in  the  autumn  they  would  reap  a  bounteous 
harvest. 

Slowly  things  got  into  order,  and  rapidly  rumors 
of  the  new  experiment  went  abroad,  causing  many 
strange  spirits  to  flock  thither,  for  in  those  days  com- 
munities were  the  fashion  and  transcendentalism  raged 
wildly.  Some  came  to  look  on  and  laugh,  some  to  be 
supported  in  poetic  idleness,  a  few  to  believe  sincerely 
and  work  heartily.  Each  member  was  allowed  to 
mount  his  favorite  hobby,  and  ride  it  to  his  heart's 


BY  LOUISA  M.  ALCOTT.  493 

content.  Very  queer  were  some  of  the  riders,  and 
very  rampant  some  of  the  hobbies. 

One  youth,  believing  that  language  was  of  little  con- 
sequence if  the  spirit  was  only  right,  startled  new- 
comers by  blandly  greeting  them  with  "Good-morning, 
damn  you,"  and  other  remarks  of  an  equally  mixed 
order.  A  second  irrepressible  being  held  that  all  the 
emotions  of  the  soul  should  be  freely  expressed,  and 
illustrated  his  theory  by  antics  that  would  have  sent 
him  to  a  lunatic  asylum,  if  as  an  unregererate  wag 
said,  he  had  not  already  been  in  one.  When  his  spirit 
soared,  he  climbed  trees  and  shouted  ;  when  doubt 
assailed  him,  he  lay  upon  the  floor  and  groaned 
lamentably.  At  joyful  periods  he  raced,  leaped  and 
sang;  when  sad,  he  wept  aloud;  and  when  a  great 
thought  burst  upon  him  in  the  watches  of  the  night  he 
crowed  like  a  jocund  cockerel,  to  the  great  delight  of 
the  children  and  the  great  annoyance  of  the  elders. 
One  musical  brother  fiddled  whenever  so  moved,  sang 
sentimentally  to  the  four  little  girls,  and  put  a  music- 
box  on  the  wall  when  he  hoed  corn. 

Brother  Pease  ground  away  at  his  uncooked  food, 
or  browsed  over  the  farm  on  sorrel,  mint,  green  fruit, 
and  new  vegetables.  Occasionally  he  took  his  walk 
abroad,  airily  attired  in  an  unbleached  cotton  poncho, 
which  was  the  nearest  approach  to  the  primeval  cos- 
tume he  was  allowed  to  indulge  in.  At  midsummer 
he  retired  to  the  wilderness,  to  try  his  plan  where  the 
woodchucks  were  without  prejudices  and  huckleberry 
bushes  were  hospitably  full.  A  sunstroke  unfortu- 
nately spoilt  his  plan,  and  he  returned  to  semi-civiliza- 
tion a  sadder  and  a  wiser  man. 

Forest  Absalom  preserved  his  Pythagorean  silence, 
cultivated  his  fine  dark  locks,  and  worked  like  r. 
beaver,  setting  an  excellent  example  of  brotherly  lo\v, 
justice  and  fidelity  by  his  upright  life.  He  it  was  who 
helped  overworked  Sister  Hope  with  her  heavy  washes, 
kneaded  the  endless  succession  of  batches  of  bread, 
watched  over  the  children,  and  did  the  many  tasks  left 
undone  by  the  brethren  who  were  so  busy  discussing 
and  defining  great  duties  that  they  forgot  to  perform 
the  small  ones. 

Moses  White  patiently  plodded  about,  "chorin' 
raound,"  as  he  called  it,  looking  like  an  old-time  patri- 


494  TRANSCENDENTAL   WILD  OATS. 

arch,  with  his  silver  hair  and  flowing  beard,  and  saving 
the  community  from  many  a  mishap  by  his  thrift  and 
Yankee  shrewdness. 

Brother  Lion  domineered  over  the  whole  concern ; 
for,  having  put  the  most  money  into  the  speculation, 
he  was  determined  to  make  it  pay — as  if  anything 
founded  on  an  ideal  basis  could  be  expected  to  do  so 
by  any  but  enthusiasts. 

Abel  Lamb  simply  revelled  in  the  Newness,  firmly 
believing  that  his  dream  was  to  be  beautifully  realized, 
and  in  time,  not  only  a  little  Fruitlands,  but  the  whole 
earth  be  turned  into  a  Happy  Valley.  He  worked 
with  every  muscle  of  his  body,  for  he  was  in  deadly 
earnest.  He  taught  with  his  whole  head  and  heart ; 
planned  and  sacrificed,  preached  and  prophesied,  with 
a  soul  full  of  the  purest  aspirations,  most  unselfish  pur- 
poses, and  desires  for  a  life  devoted  to  God  and  man, 
too  high  and  tender  to  bear  the  rough  usage  of  this 
world. 

It  was  a  little  remarkable  that  only  one  woman  ever 
joined  this  community.  Mrs.  Lamb  merely  followed 
wherever  her  husband  led, — "  as  ballast  for  his  bal- 
loon," as  she  said  in  her  bright  way. 

Miss  Jane  Gage  was  a  stout  lady  of  mature  years, 
sentimental,  amiable  and  lazy.  She  wrote  verse 
copiously,  and  had  vague  yearnings  and  graspings 
after  the  unknown,  which  led  her  to  believe  herself 
fitted  for  a  higher  sphere  than  any  she  had  yet 
adorned. 

Having  been  a  teacher,  she  was  set  to  instructing 
the  children  in  the  common  branches.  Each  adult 
member  took  a  turn  at  the  infants  ;  and,  as  each  taught 
in  his  own  way,  the  result  was  a  chronic  state  of  chaos 
in  the  minds  of  these  much  afflicted  innocents. 

Sleep,  food  and  poetic  musings,  were  the  desires  of 
dear  Jane's  life,  and  she  shirked  all  duties  as  clogs 
upon  her  spirit's  wings.  Any  thought  of  lending  a 
hand  with  the  domestic  drudgery,  never  occurred  to 
her;  and  when  to  the  question,  "Are  there  any  beasts 
of  burden  on  the  place  ? "  Mrs.  Lamb  answered,  with 
a  face  that  told  its  own  tale,  "  Only  one  woman  !  "  the 
buxom  Jane  took  no  shame  to  herself,  but  laughed  at 
the  joke,  and  let  the  stout-hearted  sister  tug  on  alone. 

Unfortunately,    the   poor   lady   hankered    after   the 


BY  LOUISA  M.  ALCOTT. 


495 


flesh-pots,  and  endeavored  to  stay  herself  with  private 
sips  of  milk,  crackers,  and  cheese,  and  on  one  dire 
occasion  she  partook  of  fish  at  a  neighbor's  table. 
One  of  the  children  reported  this  sad  lapse  from 
virtue,  and  poor  Jane  was  publicly  reprimanded  by 
Timon. 

"I  only  took  a  little  bit  of  the  tail,"  sobbed  the 
penitent  poetess. 

"Yes,  but  the  whole  fish  had  to  be  tortured  and 
slain  that  you  might  tempt  your  carnal  appetite  with 
one  taste  of  the  tail.  Know  ye  not,  consumers  of  flesh 
meat,  that  ye  are  nourishing  the  wolf  and  tiger  in  your 
bosoms  ? " 

At  this  awful  question  and  the  peal  of  laughter  that 
arose  from  some  of  the  younger  brethren,  tickled  by 
the  ludicrous  contrast  between  the  stout  sinner,  the 
stern  judge,  and  the  naughty  satisfaction  of  the  young 
detective,  poor  Jane  fled  from  the  room  to  pack  her 
trunk,  and  return  to  a  world  where  fishes'  tails  were 
not  forbidden  fruit. 

Transcendental  wild  oats  were  sown  broadcast  that 
year,  and  the  fame  thereof  has  not  ceased  in  the  land  ; 
for,  futile  as  this  crop  seemed  to  outsiders,  it  bore  an 
invisible  harvest,  worth  much  to  those  who  planted  in 
earnest.  As  none  of  the  members  of  this  particular 
community  have  ever  recounted  their  experiences  be- 
fore, a  few  of  them  may  not  be  amiss,  since  the  inter- 
est in  these  attempts  has  never  died  out  and  Fruitlands 
was  the  most  ideal  of  all  these  castles  in  Spain. 

A  new  dress  was  invented,  since  cotton,  silk  and 
wool  were  forbidden  as  the  product  of  slave-labor, 
worm-slaughter,  and  sheep-robbery.  Tunics  and 
trowsers  of  brown  linen  were  the  only  wear.  The 
women's  skirts  were  longer,  and  their  straw  hat-brims 
wider  than  the  men's,  and  this  was  the  only  difference. 
Some  persecution  lent  a  charm  to  the  costume,  and 
the  long-haired  linen-clad  reformers  quite  enjoyed  the 
mild  martyrdom  they  endured  when  they  left  home. 
Money  was  abjured  as  the  root  of  all  evil.  The  prod- 
uce of  the  land  was  to  supply  most  of  their  wants,  or 
to  be  exchanged  for  the  few  things  they  could  not 
grow.  This  idea  had  its  inconveniences;  but  self- 
denial  was  the  fashion,  and  it  was  surprising  how  many 
things  one  could  do  without.  When  they  desired  to 


'496  TRANSCENDENTAL   WILD  OATS. 

travel  they  walked,  if  possible,  begged  the  loan  of  a 
vehicle,  or  boldly  entered  car  or  coach,  and,  stating 
their  principles  to  the  officials,  took  the  consequences. 
Usually  their  dress,  their  earnest  frankness,  and  gentle 
resolution  won  them  a  passage  ;  but  now  and  then  they 
met  with  hard  usage,  and  had  the  satisfaction  of  suffer- 
ing for  their  principles. 

On  one  of  these  penniless  pilgrimages  they  took 
passage  on  a  boat,  and,  when  fare  was  demanded,  art- 
lessly offered  to  talk  instead  of  pay.  As  the  boat  was 
well  under  way  and  they  actually  had  not  a  cent,  there 
was  no  help  for  it.  So  Brothers  Lion  and  Lamb  held 
forth  to  the  assembled  passengers  in  their  most  elo- 
quent style.  There  must  have  been  something  effec- 
tive in  this  conversation,  for  the  listeners  were  moved 
to  take  up  a  contribution  for  these  inspired  lunatics, 
who  preached  peace  on  earth  and  good-will  to  man  so 
earnestly,  with  empty  pockets.  A  goodly  sum  was  col- 
lected ;  but  when  the  captain  presented  it  the  re- 
formers proved  that  they  were  consistent  even  in  their 
madness,  for  not  a  penny  would  they  accept,  saying, 
with  a  look  at  the  group  about  them,  whose  indiffer- 
ence or  contempt  had  changed  to  interest  and  respect, 
"  You  see  how  well  we  get  on  without  money ; "  and 
so  went  serenely  on  their  way,  with  their  linen  blouses 
flapping  airily  in  the  cold  October  wind. 

They  preached  vegetarianism  everywhere  and  re- 
sisted all  temptations  of  the  flesh,  contentedly  eating 
apples  and  bread  at  well-spread  tables,  and  much 
afflicting  hospitable  hostesses  by  denouncing  their 
food  and  taking  away  their  appetites,  discussing  the 
"  horrors  of  shambles,"  the  "  incorporation  of  the 
brute  in  man,"  and  "on  elegant  abstinence  the  sign 
of  a  pure  soul."  But,  when  the  perplexed  or  offended 
ladies  asked  what  they  should  eat,  they  got  in  reply  a 
bill  of  fare  consisting  of  "  bowls  of  sunrise  for  break- 
fast," "  solar  seeds  of  the  sphere,"  "  dishes  from 
Plutarch's  chaste  table,"  and  other  viands  equally 
hard  to  find  in  any  modern  market. 

Reform  conventions  of  all  sorts  were  haunted  by 
these  brethren,  who  said  many  wise  things  and  did 
many  foolish  ones.  Unfortunately,  these  wanderings 
interfered  with  their  harvests  at  home;  but  the  rule 
was  to  do  what  the  spirit  moved,  so  they  left  their 


BY  LOUISA  M.  ALCOTT.  497 

crops  to  Providence,  and  went  a-reaping  in  wider,  and, 
let  us  hope,  more  fruitful  fields  than  their  own. 
Luckily  the  earthly  Providence  who  watched  over 
Abel  Lamb  was  at  hand  to  glean  the  scanty  crop 
yielded  by  the  "  uncorrupted  land  "  which,  "  conse- 
crated to  human  freedom,"  had  received  "  the  sober 
culture  of  devout  men." 

About  the  time  the  grain  was  ready  to  house,  some 
call  of  the  Oversoul  wafted  all  the  men  away.  An 
easterly  storm  was  coming  up  and  the  yellow  stacks 
were  sure  to  be  ruined.  Then  Sister  Hope  gathered 
her  forces.  Three  little  girls,  one  boy  (Timon's  son), 
and  herself,  harnessed  to  clothes-baskets  and  Russia- 
linen  sheets,  were  the  only  teams  she  could  command ; 
but  with  these  poor  appliances  the  indomitable  woman 
got  in  the  grain  and  saved  food  for  her  young,  with 
the  instinct  and  energy  of  a  mother-bird  with  a  brood 
of  hungry  nestlings  to  feed. 

This  attempt  at  regeneration  had  its  tragic  as  well 
as  its  comic  side,  though  the  world  saw  only  the 
former. 

With  the  first  frosts,  the  butterflies,  who  had  sunned 
themselves  in  the  new  light  through  the  summer,  took 
flight,  leaving  the  few  bees  to  see  what  honey  they  had 
stored  for  winter  use.  Precious  little  appeared  beyond 
the  satisfaction  of  a  few  months  of  holy  living.  At 
first  it  seemed  as  if  a  chance  of  holy  dying  also  was  to 
be  offered  them.  Timon,  much  disgusted  with  the 
failure  of  the  scheme,  decided  to  retire  to  the  Shakers, 
who  seemed  to  be  the  only  successful  community 
going. 

"  What  is  to  become  of  us  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Hope,  for 
Abel  was  heart-broken  at  the  bursting  of  his  lovely 
bubble. 

"You  can  stay  here,  if  you  like,  till  a  tenant  is  found. 
No  more  wood  must  be  cut  however,  and  no  more  corn 
ground.  All  I  have  must  be  sold  to  pay  the  debts  of 
the  concern,  as  the  responsibility  rests  with  me,"  was 
the  cheering  reply. 

"  Who  is  to  pay  us  for  what  we  have  lost  ?  I  gave 
all  I  had — furniture,  time,  strength,  six  months  of  my 
children's  lives, — and  all  are  wasted.  Abel  gave  him- 
self body  and  soul,  and  is  almost  wrecked  by  hard 
work  and  disappointment.  Are  we  to  have  no  return 
y, 


498  TRANSCENDENTAL   WILD  OATS. 

for  this,  but  left  to  starve  and  freeze  in  an  old  house, 
with  winter  at  hand,  no  money,  and  hardly  a  friend 
left,  for  this  wild  scheme  has  alienated  nearly  all  we 
had.  You  talk  much  about  justice.  Let  us  have  a 
little,  since  there  is  nothing  else  left." 

But  the  woman's  appeal  met  with  no  reply  but  the 
old  one  :  "  It  was  an  experiment.  We  all  risked  some- 
thing, and  must  bear  our  losses  as  we  can." 

With  this  cold  comfort,  Timon  departed  with  his 
son,  and  was  absorbed  into  the  Shaker  brotherhood, 
where  he  soon  found  that  the  order  of  things  was  re- 
versed, and  it  was  all  work  and  no  play. 

Then  the  tragedy  began  for  the  forsaken  little 
family.  Desolation  and  despair  fell  upon  Abel.  As 
his  wife  said,  his  new  beliefs  had  alienated  many 
friends.  Some  thought  him  mad,  some  unprincipled. 
Even  the  most  kindly  thought  him  a  visionary,  whom  it 
was  useless  to  help  till  he  took  more  practical  views  of 
life.  All  stood  aloof,  saying,  "  Let  him  work  out  his 
own  ideas,  and  see  what  they  are  worth." 

He  had  tried,  but  it  was  a  failure.  The  world  was 
not  ready  for  Utopia  yet,  and  those  who  attempted  to 
found  it  got  only  laughed  at  for  their  pains.  In  other 
days,  men  could  sell  all  and  give  to  the  poor,  lead  lives 
devoted  to  holiness  and  high  thought,  and,  after  the 
persecution  was  over,  find  themselves  honored  as 
saints  or  martyrs.  But  in  modern  times  these  things 
are  out  of  fashion.  To  live  for  one's  principles,  at  all 
costs,  is  a  dangerous  speculation  ;  and  the  failure  of  an 
ideal,  no  matter  how  humane  and  noble,  is  harder  for 
the  world  to  forgive  and  forget  than  bank  robbery  or 
the  grand  swindles  of  corrupt  politicians. 

Deep  waters  now  for  Abel,  and  for  a  time  there 
seemed  no  passage  through.  Strength  and  spirits  were 
exhausted  by  hard  work  and  too  much  thought.  Cour- 
age failed,  when,  looking  about  for  help,  he  saw  no 
sympathizing  face,  no  hand  outstretched  to  help  him, 
no  voice  to  say  cheerily, — "  We  all  make  mistakes,  and 
and  it  takes  many  experiences  to  shape  a  life.  Try 
again,  and  let  us  help  you," 

Every  door  was  closed,  every  eye  averted,  every 
heart  cold,  and  no  way  open  wflereby  he  might  earn 
bread  for  his  children.  His  principles  would  not  per- 
mit him  to  cjo  many  things  that  others  did  \  and  in  the 


BY  LOUISA  M.  ALCOTT. 


499 


few  fields  where  conscience  would  allow  him  to  work, 
who  would  employ  a  man  who  had  flown  in  the  face  of 
society  as  he  had  done  ? 

Then  this  dreamer,  whose  dream  was  the  life  of  his 
life,  resolved  to  carry  out  his  idea  to  the  bitter  end. 
There  seemed  no  place  for  him  here, — no  work,  no 
friend.  To  go  begging  conditions  was  as  ignoble  as  to 
go  begging  money.  Better  perish  of  want  than  sell 
one's  soul  for  the  sustenance  of  his  body.  Silently  he 
lay  down  upon  his  bed,  turned  his  face  to  the  wall,  and 
waited  with  pathetic  patience  for  death  to  cut  the  knot 
which  he  could  not  untie.  Days  and  nights  went  by, 
and  neither  food  or  water  passed  his  lips.  Soul  and 
body  were  dumbly  struggling  together,  and  no  word  of 
complaint  betrayed  what  either  suffered.  His  wife, 
when  tears  and  prayers  were  unavailing,  sat  down  to 
wait  the  end  with  a  mysterious  awe  and  submission  ; 
for  in  this  entire  resignation  of  all  things  there  was  an 
eloquent  significance  to  her  who  knew  him  as  no  other 
human  being  did. 

"Leave  all  to 'God,"  was  his  belief;  and,  in  this 
crisis  the  loving  soul  clung  to  this  faith,  sure  that  the 
All-wise  Father  would  not  desert  this  child  who  tried  to 
live  so  near  to  him.  Gathering  her  children  about  her 
she  waited  the  issue  of  the  tragedy  that  was  being  en- 
acted in  that  solitary  room,  while  the  first  snow  fell  out- 
side untrodden  by  the  footprints  of  a  single  friend. 

But  the  strong  angels  who  sustain  and  teach  per- 
plexed souls  came  and  went,  leaving  no  trace  without, 
but  working  miracles  within.  For,  when  all  other 
sentiments  had  faded  into  dimness,  all  other  hopes 
died  utterly  ;  when  the  bitterness  of  death  was  nearly 
over,  when  body  was  past  any  pang  of  hunger  or 
thirst,  and  soul  stood  ready  to  depart,  the  love  that  out-* 
lives  all  else  refused  to  die.  Head  had  bowed  to 
defeat,  hand  had  grown  weary  with  heavy  tasks,  but 
heart  could  not  grow  cold  to  those  who  lived  in  its  ten- 
der depths,  even  when  death  touched  it. 

"My  faithful  wife,  my  little  girls, — they  have  not  for- 
saken me,  they  are  mine  by  ties  that  none  can  break. 
What  right  have  I  to  leave  them  alone  ?  what  right  to 
escape  from  the  burden  and  sorrow  I  have  helped  to 
bring  ?  This  duty  remains  to  me,  and  I  must  do  it 


50O  TRANSCEA'DENTAL   WILD  OATS. 

manfully.  For  their  sakes,  the  world  will  forgive  me  in 
time  ;  for  their  sakes,  God  will  sustain  me  now." 

Too  feeble  to  rise,  Abel  groped  for  the  food  that  al- 
ways lay  within  his  reach,  and  in  the  darkness  and  soli- 
tude of  that  memorable  night,  ate  and  drank  what  was 
to  him  the  bread  and  wine  of  a  new  communion,  a  new 
dedication  of  heart  and  life  to  the  duties  that  were  left 
him  when  the  dreams  fled. 

In  the  early  dawn,  when  that  sad  wife  crept  fearfully 
to  see  what  change  had  come  to  the  patient  face  on  the 
pillow,  she  saw  it  smiling  at  her,  and  heard  a  feeble 
voice  cry  out  bravely,  "  Hope  !  " 

What  passed  in  that  little  room  is  not  to  be  recorded 
except  in  the  hearts  of  those  who  suffered  and  endured 
much  for  love's  sake.  Enough  for  us  to  know  that 
soon  the  wan  shadow  of  a  man  came  forth,  leaning  on 
the  arm  that  never  failed  him,  to  be  welcomed  and 
cherished  by  the  children,  who  never  forgot  the  experi- 
ences of  that  time. 

"Hope"  was  the  watchword  now;  and  while  the  last 
log  blazed  on  the  hearth,  the  last  bread  and  apples  cov- 
ered the  table,  the  new  commander,  with  recovered 
courage,  said  to  her  husband, — 

"  Leave  all  to  God — and  me.  He  has  done  his  part ; 
now  I  will  do  mine." 

u  But  we  have  no  money,  dear." 

"Yes,  we  have.  I  sold  all  we  could  spare,  and  have 
enough  to  take  us  away  from  this  snow-bank." 

"  Where  can  we  go  ?  " 

"  I  have  engaged  four  rooms  at  our  good  neighbor's, 
Lovejoy.  There  we  can  live  cheaply  till  spring.  Then 
for  new  plans,  and  a  home  of  our  own,  please  God." 

"  But,  Hope,  your  little  store  won't  last  long,  and  we 
have  no  friends." 

"  I  can  sew,  and  you  can  chop  wood.  Lovejoy  offers 
you  the  same  pay  as  he  gives  his  other  men ;  my  old 
friend,  Mrs.  Truman  will  send  me  all  the  work  I  want ; 
and  my  blessed  brother  stands  by  us  to  the  end. 
Cheer  up,  dear  heart,  for  while  there  is  work  and  love 
in  the  world  we  shall  not  suffer." 

"  And  while  I  have  my  good  angel,  Hope,  I  shall  not 
despair,  even  if  I  wait  another  thirty  years  before  I 
step  beyond  the  circle  of  the  sacred  little,  world  in 
which  I  have  still  a  place  to  fill." 


BY  LOUISA  M.  ALCOTT.  50! 

So  one  bleak  December  day,  with  their  few  pos- 
sessions piled  on  an  ox-sled,  the  rosy  children  perched 
a-top,  and  the  parents  trudging  arm  in  arm  behind,  the 
exiles  left  their  Eden  and  faced  the  world  again. 

"  Ah,  me  !  my  happy  dream  !  How  much  I  leave  be- 
hind that  can  never  be  mine  again,"  said  Abel,  looking 
back  at  the  lost  Paradise,  lying  white  and  chill,  in  its 
shroud  of  snow. 

"  Yes,  dear ;  but  how  much  we  bring  away/'  an- 
swered brave-hearted  Hope,  glancing  from  husband 
to  children. 

"  Poor  Fruitlands  !  The  name  was  as  great  a  failure 
as  the  rest !  "  continued  Abel,  with  a  sigh,  as  a  frost- 
bitten apple  fell  from  a  leafless  bough  at  his  feet. 

But  the  sigh  changed  to  a  smile,  as  his  wife  added,  in 
a  half-tender,  half-satirical  tone, — 

"  Don't  you  think  that  Apple  Slump  would  be  a  bet- 
ter name  for  it,  dear?" 


DAYE'S  WIFE. 


BY 


ELLA  WHEELER  WILCOX. 


m 


ELLA  WHEELER  WILCOX. 


ELLA  WHEELER  might  be  said  to  have  suddenly  ap- 
peared upon  the  poetical  horizon  in  her  volume  called 
"Poems  of  Passion."  Though  not  her  first  work  it 
was  this  which  caused  the  public  to  realize  that  the  far 
western  state  of  Wisconsin  had  produced  a  poetess  of 
surprising  power  and  individuality.  That  it  met  with 
severe  criticism  from  many  sources  did  not  blind  any 
one  to  the  fact  that  there  was  unusual  force  of  ex- 
pression and  rhythmic  beauty  in  the  verses,  whether 
they  approved  of  them  or  not.  In  fact  the  wonder 
was,  how  this  young  girl  had  developed  such  powers  of 
fancy  and  imagination,  and  such  command  of  metrical 
composition,  without  apparently  any  special  scholastic 
cultivation,  or  even  any  social  environment  calculated 
to  favor  such  a  precocious  flow  of  sentiment. 

Born  in  a  prairie  village,  without  influential  friends, 
or  any  personal  knowledge  of  literary  people  ;  unac- 
quainted even  with  any  editor  or  journalist,  this  young 
girl  found  it  impossible  to  resist  the  impulse  to  pour 
out  her  youthful,  immature  thoughts,  in  rhymed  meas- 
ure. Her  first  verses,  sent  to  the  editor  of  the  New 
York  Mercury  were  rejected,  and  with  that  proverbial 
insight  and  inspiration  which  editors  and  publishers 
fancy  they  possess,  she  was  calmly  advised  to  give  up 
her  idea  of  becoming  a  poet. 

But  she  viewed  the  situation  differently,  and  con- 
tinued to  besiege  the  editorial  sanctum  with  successive 
poems,  under  different  nom  tie  plumes,  and  finally  with 
success.  But  it  was  the  Wavcrley  Magazine  which 
first  introduced  her  to  the  public  under  her  own  name. 
Two  small  volumes,  almost  juvenile  in  their  character 
finally  struggled  into  print.  These  were  "  Drops  of 
Water"  and  "  Shells,"  the  former  mainly  devoted  to 
enthusiastic  pleas  for  temperance.  Her  next  book  was 
a  great  improvement  upon  these,  both  in  form  and  sub- 
509 


510  ELLA   WHEELER  WILCOX. 

ject.  Her  mind  rapidly  matured  ;  and  by  the  time  she 
was  eighteen,  most  of  the  "  Poems  of  Passion  "  had 
been  composed  if  not  published. 

It  was  not  long  after  this  volume  appeared,  in  May, 
1883,  that  a  very  unusual  testimonial  was  offered  her  in 
the  city  of  Milwaukee.  A  "  benefit  "  for  her  had  been 
arranged  by  some  of  the  leading  citizens  of  that  enter- 
prising place.  A  member  of  the  United  States  Senate 
made  a  eulogistic  address,  and  at  its  close  he  presented 
to  the  fair  young  poetess  a  fancy  basket,  containing  five 
hundred  dollars  in  brave  gold  pieces.  Far  more  satis- 
factory to  her,  at  that  time,  than  a  myrtle  crown  from 
Mount  Parnassus  itself  would  have  been. 

One  year  later  Ella  Wheeler  was  married  to  Robert 
Wilcox,  a  cultivated  and  estimable  gentleman,  whose 
fine  taste  and  critical  ear,  proved  an  excellent  aid  to 
the  exuberant  young  poetess. 

"  Poems  of  Pleasure  "  is  generally  thought  to  con- 
tain the  finest  poetical  work  of  Mrs.  Wilcox.  Her 
prose  story  "  Mai  Moulee  "  has  many  admirers,  as  also 
other  short  stories  and  a  novel  entitled  "The  Advent- 
ures of  Miss  Volney."  Besides  the  ordinary  editions, 
a  volume  de  lux  of  "  Poems  of  Passion  "  has  been  pub- 
lished. "  Maurinne  "  contains,  we  believe,  the  first  por- 
trait of  the  authoress  added  to  any  of  her  works. 

Since  her  marriage  Mrs.  Wilcox  has  resided  in  the 
eastern  states,  and  for  some  time  has  been  located  in 
New  York  City,  which  will  be  her  permanent  home. 


DAVE'S  WIFE. 


"  So  Dave  has  brought  his  wife  home  ?  " 

Deacon  Somers  cut  a  larger  chip  from  the  stick  he 
had  been  whittling  down  to  a  very  fine  point  as  he 
answered  Deacon  Bradlaw's  query  by  the  one  monosyl- 
lable, "  Ye-a-s." 

"Got  home  last  night,  I  hear." 

"  Ye-a-s ;  "  and  the  stick  was  coming  down  to  a  very 
fine  point  now,  so  assiduously  was  the  deacon  devoting 
all  his  energies  to  it. 

Deacon  Bradlaw  waited  a  moment,  with  an  expec- 
tant air ;  then  he  clasped  one  knee  with  both  hands,  and 
leaned  forward  toward  his  neighbor. 

"  Well,  what  do  you  think  of  your  boy's  choice  ?  "  he 
asked.  "  What  sort  of  a  woman  does  she  seem  to  be  ? 
Think  she'll  be  a  help  in  the  church  ? " 

Deacon  Somers  was  silent  a  moment.  Whirling  the 
whittled  stick  around  and  around,  he  squinted  at  it,  with 
one  eye  closed,  to  see  if  it  was  perfectly  symmetrical. 
(Deacon  Somers  had  a  very  mathematical  eye,  and  he 
liked  so  have  everything  "plumb,"  as  he  expressed  it. 
He  had  been  known  to  rise  from  his  knees  at  a  neigh- 
bor's house  in  prayer-meeting  time  and  go  across  the 
room  and  straighten  a  picture  which  offended  his  eye 
by  hanging  "  askew.")  Having  convinced  himself  that 
ihe  stick  was  round,  the  deacon  tilted  back  against  the 
side  of  the  country  store  where  he  and  his  companion 
were  siting,  and  began  picking  his  teeth  with  the  afore 
said  stick,  as  he  answered  Deacon  Bradlaw's  question 
by  another,  and  a  seemingly  irrelevant  one. 

"  Do  you  remember  Dave's  hoss  trade  ?  " 

"  No,"  answered  the  deacon,  surprised  at  this  sudden 
turn  in  the  conversation,  "  I  can't  say  I  do." 

"  Wa-al,  just  after  he  came  home  from  college,  two 
years  ago,  he  got  dreadfully  sot  against  the  bay  mare 
I  drove.  I'd  had  her  for  years,  and  she  was  a  nice 


512  DAV&S  WIFE. 

steady-going  animal.  We  had  a  four-year-old  colt  too, 
that  I  drove  with  her.  Wa-al,  Dave  he  thought  it  was 
a  shame  and  a  disgrace  to  drive  such  a  ill-matched 
span.  The  young  hoss  was  right  up  and  off,  and  the 
bay  mare  she  lagged  behind  about  half  a  length.  The 
young  hoss  was  a  short  stepper,  and  the  bay  mare 
went  with  a  long,  easy  lope.  They  wasn't  a  nice- 
matched  span,  I  do  confess. 

"  Wa'al,  Dave  he  kept  a-talkin'  trade  to  me  till  I 
give  in.  He  said  he  knew  of  a  mighty  nice  match  for 
the  young  hoss,  and  if  I  would  leave  it  to  him  he'd 
make  a  good  trade.  So  I  left  it  to  him,  and  one  day 
he  come  drivin'  home  in  grand  style.  The  old  mare 
was  traded  off,  and  a  dappled-gray  four-year-old  was 
in  her  place.  A  pretty  creature  to  look  at,  but  I  knew, 
the  minute  I  sot  eyes  onto  her,  that  she'd  never  pull  a 
plough  through  the  stubble-ground,  or  haul  a  reaper  up 
that  side-hill  o'  mine. 

"  '  Isn't  she  a  beauty,  father  ? '  said  Dave. 

"  '  Yes,'  says  I ;  '  but  handsome  is  as  handsome  does 
applies  to  hosses  as  well  as  to  folks,  I  reckon.  What 
can  this  'ere  mare  do,  Dave  ? ' 

"  Dave's  face  was  all  aglow.  '  Do  ! '  says  he.  '  Why, 
she  can  trot  a  mile  in  two  minutes  and  three-quarters, 
father,  and  I  only  give  seventy-five  dollars  to  boot 
'twixt  her  and  the  old  mare.' 

"  Wa'al,  you  see,  I  was  just  struck  dumb  at  that 
there  boy's  foil}',  but  I  knew  'twa'n't  no  use  to  say  a 
word  then.  I  just  waited,-  and  it  come  out  as  I  ex- 
pected. The  dappled-gray  mare  took  us  to  church  or  to 
town  in  fine  style — passed  everything  on  the  road  slick" 
as  a  pin.  But  she  balked  on  the  reaper,  and  give  out 
entirely  on  the  plough.  And  I  hed  to  buy  another 
mare  for  the  hoss,  and  let  the  dappled  mare  stand  in 
the  stable,  except  when  we  put  her  in  the  carriage." 

Deacon  Somers  paused  and  his  glance  rested  on 
Deacon  Bradlaw's  questioning,  puzzled  face. 

"  Well  ?"  interrogated  Deacon  Bradlaw. 

"  Wa'al,"  continued  Deacon  Somers,  "  Dave's  mar- 
riage is  off  the  same  piece  as  his  hoss  trade.  Pretty 
creature,  and  can  outstrip  all  the  girls  round  here  in 
playin'  and  singin'  and  paintin'  and  dressin,'  but  come  to 
washin'  and  bakin'  and  steady  work — why,  we'll  hev  to 
get  somebody  else  to  do  that,  and  let  her  sit  in  the 


BY  ELLA   WHEELER  WILCOX.  513 

parlor.  Mother  V  I  both  see  that  at  a  glance  ;  "  and 
the  deacon  sighed. 

"  I  see,  I  see,"  mused  Deacon  Bradlaw,  sympathet- 
ically. "  Too  bad  !  too  bad  !  Dave  knew  her  at  col- 
lege, I  believe  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  they  graduated  in  the  same  class.  She  car 
ried  off  all  the  honors,  and  the  papers  give  her  a  long 
puff  'bout  her  ellycution.  Dave's  head  was  completely 
turned,  and  he  kept  runnin'  back  and  forth  to  see  her, 
till  I  thought  the  best  thing  for  him  to  do  was  to 
marry  her  and  be  done  with  it.  But  Sarah  Jane 
Graves  would  have  suited  mother  V  me  better.  You 
know  Dave  and  she  was  pretty  thick  before  he  went 
off  to  college." 

"  She's  a  powerful  homely  girl,  though,"  Deacon 
Bradlaw  said  ;  "  and  the  awkwardest  critter  I  ever  see 
stand  in  church  choir  and  sing.  Seems  to  be  all 
elbows  somehow." 

"  Ye-a-s — ye-a-s ;  a  good  deal  like  the  bay  mare 
Dave  was  so  sot  against — awkward,  but  steady-goin' 
and  useful — more  for  use  than  show.  Wa'al,  wa'al,  I 
must  be  going  home  ;  all  the  chores  to  do,  and  Dave's 
billin'  and  cooin'.  Good  afternoon.  Come  over  and 
see  us." 

When  Dave  Somers  and  his  bride  walked  up  the 
church  aisle,  the  next  Sunday  morning,  over  Parson 
Elliott's  congregation  there  passed  that  indefinable 
flutter  which  can  only  be  compared  to  a  breeze  sud- 
denly stirring  the  leaves  of  a  poplar  grove.  Every  eye 
was  turned  upon  the  handsome,  strong-limbed  young 
man,  and  the  fair,  delicate  girl  at  his  side,  who  bore 
the  curious  glances  of  all  these  strangers  with  quiet, 
well-bred  composure. 

After  service  people  lingered  in  the  aisle  for  an  in- 
troduction, in  the  manner  of  country  village  churches, 
where  Sunday  is  the  day  for  quiet  sociability  and  the 
interchange  of  civilities.  And  after  the  respective 
friends  of  the  family  had  scattered  to  their  several 
homes,  Dave's  wife  was  the  one  universal  topic  of  dis- 
cussion over  the  Sunday  dinner. 

"  A  mighty  pretty  girl,"  "A  face  like  a  rose,"  "Too 
cute  for  anything,"  "  Stylish  as  a  fashion  plate,"  "  A 
regular  little  daisy,"  were  a  few  of  the  comments 
33 


514  DAVE'S  WIFE. 

passed  by  the  young  men  of  the  congregation.  To 
these  remarks  the  ladies  supplemented  their  critical 
observations  after  the  manner  of  women  :  "  Her  nose 
isn't  pretty  ;  "  "  Her  mouth  is  too  large  ;  "  "  Her  face 
was  powdered — I  saw  it ;  "  "  Her  hat  was  horrid  ;  " 
"  I  don't  like  to  see  so  much  agony  in  a  small  place." 
But  Sarah  Jane  Graves  said  :  "  She  is  lovely.  I  would 
give  the  world  to  be  as  pretty  as  she  is.  No  wonder 
Dave  loved  her."  And  she  choked  down  a  lump  in 
her  throat  as  she  said  it. 

All  the  neighboring  people  called  on  Dave's  wife 
during  the  next  month,  and,  with  one  or  two  excep- 
tions, introduced  the  conversation  by  the  question, 
"  Well,  how  do  you  like  Somerville  ?  "  To  the  monot- 
ony of  this  query  Dave's  wife  varied  her  replies  as 
much  as  was  possible  without  contradicting  heiself. 
"  I  am  quite  delighted  with  the  fertility  of  my  mind," 
she  laughingly  remarked  to  Dave  at  the  expiration  of 
the  first  month.  "  To  at  least  fifteen  people  who  have 
asked  me  that  one  unvaried  question  I  have  invented 
at  least  ten  different  phrases  in  which  to  express  my 
satisfaction  with  Somerville.  I  have  said  :  '  Very 
much,  thank  you  ; '  '  Oh,  I  am  highly  pleased  ; '  '  Fai 
better  than  I  anticipated  even  ; '  'I  find  it  very  pleas- 
ant ; '  'It  has  made  a  very  agreeable  impression  upon 
me  ; '  and  oh,  ever  so  many  more  changes  I  have  rung 
on  that  one  idea,  Dave  !  "  and  the  young  wife  laughed 
merrily.  But  under  the  laugh  Dave  seemed  to  hear 
a  minor  strain.  His  face  grew  grave. 

"  I  fear  I  did  wrong  to  bring  you  here  among  these 
people,"  he  said.  "  They  are  so  unlike  you — so  com- 
monplace. I  fear  you  are  homesick  already,  Madge." 

"  No,  no  ;  indeed  you  are  wrong,  Dave  ;  indeed  I 
am  happy  here,  and  like  your  friends,"  Madge  pro- 
tested, with  tender  earnestness. 

But  as  the  months  went  by  it  was  plain  to  all  eyes 
that  Dave's  wife  was  not  happy,  that  she  did  not 
assimilate  with  her  surroundings.  She  made  no  inti- 
mate friendships;  she  sat  silent  at  the  sewing  society, 
and  would  not  take  an  interest  in  the  neighborhood 
gossip,  which  formed  the  main  topic  of  conversation  at 
these  meetings.  She  would  not  take  a  class  at  Sun- 
day-school, claiming  that  she  was  not  fitted  to  explain 


BY  ELLA   WHEELER  WILCOX.  515 

the  Gospel  to  any  unfolding,  inquiring  mind,  as  she 
was  not  at  all  sure  that  she  understood  it  herself. 

Dark  insinuations  were  afloat  that  Dave's  wife  was 
an  "  unbeliever,"  or  at  least  a  Unitarian,  and  her 
fashionable  style  of  dress  marked  her  as  "worldlv- 
mincled  "  at  all  events.  Deacon  Bradlavv  and  Deacon 
S  uners  held  many  an  interview  on  the  shady  side  of 
the  village  store,  and  "  Dave's  wife  "  always  came  up 
for  discussion,  sooner  or  later,  during  those  inter- 
views. 

"  She's  settin'  a  bad  example  to  all  of  Somerville," 
Deacon  Bradlaw  declared.  "  My  gal  Arminda'sgettin' 
just  as  fussy  and  proud  as  a  young  peacock  about  her 
clothes  ;  nothin'  suits  her  now  unless  it  looks  stylish 
and  cityfied.  And  I  see  there's  a  deal  more  exirava- 
gnnce  in  dress  among  all  the  women-folks  since  Dave's 
wife  came  with  her  high  heels  and  her  bustles  and  her 
trimmins.  You  ought  to  labor  with  her,  Brother 
Somers." 

Brother  Somers  sighed.  "  I  do  labor  with  her,"  he 
said,  "  but  the  poor  thing  don't  know  what  to  do.  Her 
guardian — she  was  an  orphan,  you  know — give  iier 
the  little  money  she  had  left  after  her  schoolin',  to 
buy  hef  weddin'  fixin's.  She'd  no  idee  what  plain 
folks  she  was  a  comin'  among.  So  she  got  her 
outfit  accordin'  to  the  way  she'd  been  brought  up. 
Lord  !  she's  got  things  enough  to  last  her  ten  years, 
and  all  trimmed  to  kill,  and  all  fittin'  her  like  a  duck's 
foot  in  the  mud ;  and  what  can  she  do  but  wear  'em 
now  she's  got  'em,  she  says;  and  I  can't  tell  her  to 
throw  'em  away  and  buy  new.  'Twouldn't  be  econ- 
omy. She's  been  with  us  nigh  onto  a  year  now,  and 
she's  never  asked  Dave  for  a  cent's  worth  of  any- 
thin." 

"  But  she's  no  worker ;  anybody  can  see  that. 
And  you've  hed  to  keep  a  girl  half  the  time  since 
she's  been  with  you,"  Deacon  Bradlaw  added,  some- 
what nettled  that  his  neighbor  made  any  excuses 
for  Dave's  wife,  whose  fair  face  and  fine  clothes  and 
quiet  reserve  had  inspired  him  with  an  angry  resent- 
ment from  the  first. 

"Ye-a-s,  ye-a-s,  that's  true,"  Deacon  Somers  con- 
fessed. "  She's  no  worker.  Lord !  the  way  she 
tried  to  make  cheese  ;  and  the  cookin'  she  did ! 


516  DAV&S  WIFE. 

Mother  bed  to  throw  the  cheese  curd  into  the  pig's 
swill,  and  the  bread  and  cake  she  made  followed  it. 
More  waste  from  that  experiment  of  hers  than  we've 
hed  in  years  ;  and  she  was  flour  from  head  lo  foot, 
and  all  of  a  perspiration,  and  sick  in  bed  from  cryin' 
over  her  failures  into  the  bargain.  The  poor  thing  did 
try  her  very  best.  But  it  was  like  the  dappled  mare 
tryin'  to  haul  the  plough — she  couldn't  do  it,  wa'n't 
built  for  it." 

When  Deacon  Somers  reached  home  his  brow  was 
clouded.  His  good  wife  saw  it,  and  questioned  him 
as  to  the  cause.  He  shook  his  head. 

"  I'm  troubled  about  church  matters,  mother,"  he 
said.  "  The  debt  fur  that  new  steeple  and  altar,  and 
all  the  rest  of  the  expense  we've  been  to  the  last  two 
years,  wears  on  me  night  an'  day.  And  Deacon  Brad- 
law  he's  gettin'  mad  at  some  of  the  trustees,  and  says 
he'll  never  put  another  dollar  into  the  church  till 
they  come  forward  and  head  a  paper  with  fifty 
dollars  apiece  subscription.  I  know  'em  all  too  well 
to  think  they'll  ever  do  that,  and  Deacon  Bradlaw  he's 
a  reg'lar  mule.  So  the  first  we  know  our  church'll 
be  in  a  stew  that  will  send  half  its  members  over  to 
the  rival  church  that's  started  up  at  Jonesville,  with 
one  o'  them  sensation  preachers  that  draws  a  crowd 
like  a  circus,"  and  Deacon  Somers  sighed. 

"  Isn't  there  something  that  can  be  done  to  raise 
the  money  ? "  asked  Mother  Somers,  anxiously. 
"  Can't  we  get  up  entertainments  ? " 

"That's  old,  and  'taint  strawberry  season,"  sighed 
the  deacon.  "  We  couldn't  charge  more'n  fifteen  or 
twenty  cents  at  the  door,  and  that  wouldn't  bring  in 
much  for  one  entertainment,  and  nobody  would  turn 
out  to  a  second.  There  don't  seem  to  be  no  ingenuity 
among  the  young  folks  here  'bout  gettin'  up  anything 
entertainin'.  Our  strawberry  festival  was  just  a  dead 
failure — barely  paid  expenses." 

Dave's  wife,  sitting  with  her  pale  face,  which  had 
grown  very  thin  and  wan  of  late,  bent  over  a  bit  of 
sewing,  suddenly  looked  up.  Her  listless  expression 
gave  place  to  one  of  animated  interest.  "Father 
Somers,"  she  began,  timidly,  "  do  you  suppose — do 
you  think — I  could  get  up  a  reading  ?  " 

"  A  what?"  and  Deacon  Somers  turned  a  surprised 


BY  ELLA    WHEELER  WILCOX.  517 

and  puzzled  face  upon  his  daughter-in-law.  It  was  so 
new  for  her  to  betray  any  interest  in  anything. 

"A  reading.  You  know  I  took  the  prize  for  elocu- 
tion when  I  graduated.  I  know  ever  so  many  things 
I  could  recite,  and  it  might  draw  a  crowd  just  from  its 
being  something  new.  We  could  charge  twenty-five 
cents  admission,  and  it  would  give  the  impression  of 
something  good,  at  least.  After  they  had  heard  me 
once  they  could  decide  for  themselves  if  I  am  worth 
hearing  again." 

Deacon  Somers  looked  upon  the  glowing  face  and 
animated  mien  of  Dave's  wife  with  increasing  wonder. 
Was  this  the  listless  girl  he  had  seen  a  few  moments 
before  ? 

"  Ton  my  soul,"  he  ejaculated,  "  I  don't  know  but 
it  might  draw  a  crowd,  just  from  curiosity.  Every- 
body would  go  to  see  Dave's  wife.  Not  that  I  hev 
much  of  a  opinion  of  readin's  ;  never  heard  any  but 
once,  and  then  I  went  to  sleep.  But  it  might  draw, 
seenin'  it's  you.  You  can  try  it  if  you  want  to." 

Dave's  wife  did  try  it.  It  was  announced  before 
service  Sunday  morning  that  Mrs.  David  Somers  would 
give  a  reading  in  the  church  edifice  on  Thursday  even- 
ing :  admission,  twenty-five  cents.  Proceeds  to  be 
applied  toward  the  church  debt. 

Again  there  was  a  breezy  stir  in  the  congregation, 
and  scores  of  eyes  were  turned  upon  Dave's  wife,  who 
sat  in  her  silent  white  composure,  with  her  dark  eyes 
lifted  to  the  face  of  the  clergyman. 

But  Sarah  Jane  Graves  could  not  help  noticing  as 
she  had  not  before  the  marked  change  in  the  young 
wife's  face  since  the  day  she  entered  that  church  a 
bride. 

"  How  she  is  fading !  I  wonder  if  she  is  unhappy?  " 
she  thought. 

Thursday  night  came  fair  and  clear.  As  Deacon 
Somers  had  predicted,  the  announcement  that  Dave's 
wife  was  to  give  a  reading  had  drawn  a  house  ;  the 
church  was  literally  packed.  Dave's  wife  rose  before 
her  audience  with  no  words  of  apology  or  introduction, 
and  began  the  recitation  of  the  old,  hackneyed,  yet 
ever  beautiful 

"  Curfew  shall  not  ring  to-night." 


m 


5l8  DAVE'S  WIFE. 

It  was  new  to  most  of  the  audience,  and  certainly  the 
manner  of  its  delivery  was  new  to  them.  They  forgot 
themselves,  they  forgot  their  sunoudings,  they  forgot 
that  it  was  Dave's  wife  who  stood  before  them.  They 
were  alone  in  the  belfry  tower  clinging  with  bleeding 
hands  to  the  brazen  tongue  of  the  bell  as  it  swung  to 
and  fro  above  the  deaf  old  janitor's  head.  When  the 
recitation  was  finished  two  or  three  of  the  audience 
found  themselves  on  their  feet.  How  they  came  there 
they  never  knew,  and  they  sat  down  with  a  shamefaced 
expression. 

Sarah  Jane  Graves  was  in  tears,  and  one  or  two 
others  wiped  their  eyes  furtively,  and  then  the  old 
church  walls  rang  with  cheers.  So  soon  as  they  sub- 
sided Dave's  wife  arose,  and,  with  a  sudden  change  of 
expression  and  voice  began  to  give  a  recital  of  "  An 
Evening  at  the  Quarters."  It  was  in  negro  dialect, 
and  introduced  one  or  two  snatches  of  song  and  a  violin 
air.  To  the  astonishment  of  her  audience  Dave's 
wife  picked  up  a  violin  at  the  appropriaie  time,  and 
played  the  air  through  in  perfect  time  and  tune;  and 
then  the  house  resounded  to  another  round  of  cheers, 
ajid  the  entire  audience  was  convulsed  with  laughter. 
Everything  which  followed,  grave  or  gay,  pathetic  or 
absurd,  was  met  with  nods  of  approval,  or  the  clap- 
ping of  hands  and  the  drumming  of  feet.  Somerville 
had  never  known  such  an  entertainment  before.  The 
receipts  for  the  evening  proved  to  be  over  forty 
dollars. 

During  the  next  three  months  Dave's  wife  gave  two 
more  readings,  the  proceeds  of  which  paid  half  the 
church  debt,  and  this  so  encouraged  the  members  that 
old  grudges  and  quarrels  were  forgotten,  and  Deacon 
Bradlaw  and  the  elders  made  up  the  remaining  hali, 
and  Somerville  church  was  free  from  debt. 

Yet  Deacon  Bradlaw  was  heard  to  say  that  while  he 
was  glad  and  grateful  for  all  that  Dave's  wife  had  done, 
he  did  not  in  his  heart  approve  of  turning  the  house  of 
God  into  a  "  theatre."  "She  performed  exactly  like 
them  women  whose  pictures  are  in  the  store  winders 
in  town,"  he  said,  "  a-makin'  everybody  laugh  or  cry 
with  their  monkey-shines.  I  don't  think  it  a  proper 
way  to  go  on  in  the  house  of  God.  Never  would  hev 


BY  ELLA   WHEELER  WlLCOX.  519 

given  my  consent  to  it  ef  I'd  known  what  sort  of  enter- 
tainment it  was  to  be.'' 

"  Dave's  wife  ever  been  a  actress  ?;!  he  asked  Deacon 
Somers  when  they  next  met. 

"  Actress  ?  No.  What  put  that  into  your  head  ? 
answered  Deacon  Somers,  with  some  spirit. 

"  Oh,  nothin',  nothin' ;  only  her  readin's  seemed  a 
powerful  sight  like  a  theatre  I  went  to  once.  Didn't 
know  she'd  been  on  the  stage  ;  it's  gettin'  fashi'nable 
nowadays.  Anyway,  she's  missed  her  callin'.  Wait  a 
minute,  neighbor;  don't  hurry  off  so.  I  want  to  talk 
church  matters." 

"  Can't,"  responded  Deacon  Somers,  whipping  up 
his  horse.  "Dave's  wife  is  sick  in  bed,  and  I  came  to 
the  store  to  git  a  few  things  for  her — bitters,  and  some 
nourishin'  things  to  eat.  She's  sort  o'  run  down  with 
the  exertion  she  made  in  them  readin's.  She  used  to 
be  just  drippin'  with  perspiration  when  she  got  home." 

Dave's  wife  was  ailing  for  months,  unable  to  do  more 
than  sit  in  her  room  and  paint  an  hour  or  two  each 
clay.  The  house  was  filled  with  her  paintings.  They 
ornamented  brackets,  and  stood  in  corners,  and  peeped 
from  the  folds  of  fans,  and  smiled  from  Dave's  china 
coffee-cup. 

One  day  Dave  proposed  to  his  wife  that  she  should 
go  to  her  old  home — the  home  of  her  guardian — and 
make  a  visit. 

"We've  been  married  fifteen  months  now,"  he  said, 
"  and  you've  never  been  away.  I  think  a  change  will 
do  you  good.  You  seem  to  be  running  down  every 
day." 

So  she  went.  After  an  absence  of  ten  days  she 
wrote  to  Dave  to  send  her  paintings  to  her  by  express. 
She  had  need  of  them  ;  would  explain  when  she  re- 
turned. Dave  packed  them  carefully,  and  sent  them 
with  a  sigh. 

Poor  Dave  \  He  had  come  to  realize  that  his  mar- 
riage was  a  great  mistake.  To  be  sure,  he  loved 
Madge  yet,  but  the  romance  of  his  youthful  attachment 
had  all  passed  away  in  the  dull  commonplace  routine 
of  his  domestic  life,  where  Madge  had  proved  such  an 
inefficient  helpmeet. 

He  had  been  blindly  in  love  with  his  divinity  ;  elated 
with  the  fact  that  he  had  won  her  away  from  two  or 


52O  DAVE'S  WIPE. 

three  other  suitors.  Madge  was  a  brilliant  scholar  and 
a  belle,  and  with  the  blind  faith  of  young  love,  Dave 
had  believed  that  she  would  excel  in  domestic  duties 
as  in  intellectual  pursuits.  Her  ignominious  failures, 
her  utter  uselessness,  and  his  mother's  constant  and 
indisputable  references  to  her  inefficiency  about  the 
farm-work,  had  presented  her  to  his  eyes  in  a  new 
light.  The  brilliant  girl  who  was  the  prkle  of  the 
college,  and  the  helpless,  thriftless  wife  whose  husband 
was  regarded  with  pity  by  a  sympathetic  neighborhood, 
were  two  distinct  individuals,  as  were  also  the  young 
elocutionist  carrying  off  the  honors  of  her  class,  and 
the  tired,  tearful  woman  weeping  over  her  soggy  bread 
and  melted  butter. 

The  success  in  hei  readings  had  revived  his  old 
pride  in  her  for  a  time.  But  her  consequent  illness 
and  listlessness  had  discouraged  him. 

Mrs.  Somers  saw  the  express  package,  and  in- 
quired what  it  was.  Dave  told  her,  remarking  at  the 
same  time  that  he  did  not  know  what  she  intended  to 
make  of  them. 

"  Maybe  she's  going  to  give  'em  away  to  those  who  will 
appreciate  'em,"  suggested  his  mother.  "  I  am  sure 
we've  no  room  for  such  rubbish.  But  her  time's  no 
more'n  a  settin'  hen's  and  she  might  as  well  spend  it 
in  that  way  as  any  other.  She  can't  do  nothin'  that 
amounts  to  anything." 

"  I  think  her  readings  amounted  to  a  good  deal," 
Dave  responded,  glad  that  he  could  once  speak  author- 
itatively of  his  wife's  usefulness. 

"  Oh,  yes  ;  for  that  emergency.  But  its  steady  work 
that  tells.  Lor*  pity  you  and  father  ef  I  couldn't  do 
nothin'  but  give  readings  !  Wonder  where  your  meals 
would  come  from.  Your  marriage  and  your  horse 
trade  were  'bout  off  one  piece,  Dave.  Your  wife's  pretty 
in  the  parlor  or  on  the  floor  readin',  and  your  mare 
looks  nice  and  drives  nice  in  the  buggy.  But  they 
can't  work." 

Dave's  wife  came  home  at  the  expiration  of  a  month, 
looking  fresher  and  feeling  stronger,  she  said.  And 
she  did  not  bring  her  paintings. 

Deacon  Somers  came  into  Dave's  room  the  night 
after  her  return,  to  talk  about  a  certain  piece  of  land 


BY  ELLA   WHEELER  WILCOX.  $21 

that  was  for  sale.  It  "cornered  on  "  to  the  deacon's 
farm,  and  a  stream  of  water  ran  across  it. 

"  It  will  be  worth  a  mint  of  money  to  me,"  he  said, 
"  for  I  can  turn  that  field  into  a  pasture,  and  all  my 
stock  will  water  itself.  But  the  man  who's  sellin' 
wants  a  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  down.  He's  goin' 
West,  and  must  have  that  amount  this  week.  I  don't 
see  the  way  clear  to  pay  it,  for  expenses  have  been  a 
good  deal  of  late,  takin'  doctors'  bills  and  hired  help 
and  all  into  consideration,  and  my  ready  money  has 
run  low.  Do  you  think  of  anybody  that'll  be  likely  to 
lend  us  that  amount  for  three  months,  Dave  ?  " 

But  before  Dave  could  reply,  Dave's  wife  spoke. 

"  Father  Somers,"  she  said,  "  I  can  let  you  have  the 
money — not  as  a  loan,  but  as  a  gift.  I  have  been  of  so 
little  use  to  you,  and  have  made  you  so  much  expense, 
I  shall  be  very,  very  happy  if  you  will  let  me  do  this 
for  you."  And  rising  up,  she  came  a  id  laid  a  little 
silken  purse  in  Deacon  Somers's  hands. 

"  But  where  did  you  get  it,  child  ? "  asked  the 
wondering  deacon,  looking  from  the  plethoric  little 
purse  to  her  face,  which  had  flushed  a  rosy  red. 

"  I  sold  my  paintings,"  Dave's  wife  answered. 
"  A  gentleman  happened  to  see  a  little  thing  I  painted, 
and  he  said  he  knew  where  I  could  dispose  of  any 
quantity  of  such  work.  And,  sure  enough,  I  sold 
every  one  of  those  things  I  painted  when  I  was  sick, 
for  good  prices.  And  I  decorated  some  plates  for  a 
lady,  who  paid  me  well  for  it.  So  I  have  one  hundred 
and  seventy-five  dollars  in  that  purse,  which  you  are 
more  than  welcome  to." 

Deacon  Somers  removed  his  spectacles  and  mopped 
them,  with  his  silk  handkerchief.  "1  can't  do  it,  my 
child,"  he  said  ;  "  it  wouldn't  be  right.  You  must  keep 
your  own  money." 

"  But  I  have  no  use  for  it,"  cried  Dave's  wife.  "  I 
intended  to  spend  it  all  in  Christmas  gifts  for  the 
family,  but  this  is  better.  I  have  everything  I  need. 
All  I  ask  or  desire  is  to  be  of  some  use — and  to  have 
you  all  love  me,"  she  added,  softly. 

"  A  hundred  and  seventy-five  dollars  for  that  trash  ! 
Well,  the  world  is  full  of  fools  !  "  Mrs  Somers  ejaculated 
when  she  was  told  of  what  had  occurred.  But  she 
looked  at  Dave's  wife  with  an  expression  of  surprised 


522  DAVE'S  WIFE. 

interest  after  that,  as  if  it  was  just  dawning  upon  her 
that  one  might  be  of  use  in  the  world  who  could 
neither  cook  nor  make  cheese. 

Deacon  Somers's  farm  boasted  a  fine  stone  quarry, 
and  he  was  very  busily  at  work  every  spare  moment, 
quarrying  stone  for  the  foundation  of  a  new  barn  he 
was  to  build.  One  day  Dave  drove  to  town,  ten  miles 
distant,  with  a  load  of  grain  for  market.  It  was  Sep- 
tember, and  the  market  had  risen  during  the  last  few 
days.  All  the  neighboring  farmers  had  turned  out  and 
hurried  their  grain  away,  Deacon  Somers  remained  at 
home,  quarrying  stone.  Mrs.  Somers  rang  the  great 
bell  at  noon-time,  but  he  did  not  come.  Then  she  grew 
alarmed. 

"  Some  one  must  go  up  to  the  quarry  and  see  if  any- 
thing has  happened,"  she  said.  And  Dave's  wife  was 
off  like  a  young  deer  before  the  words  were  outj>f  her 
mouth. 

It  did  not  seem  three  minutes  before  she  stood  at 
the  door  again,  with  white  lips,  her  dark  eyes  large 
with  fright.  "  Father  is  wedged  in  under  a  great 
bowlder,"  she  said.  "  You  and  the  girl  must  go  to 
him.  Take  the  camphor  and  ammonia  ;  it  may  sustain 
his  strength  until  I  can  bring  relief.  I  am  going  to 
ride  the  dappled  mare  to  the  village,  and  rouse  the 
whole  neighborhood." 

"  We  have  no  saddle,"  gasped  Mrs.  Somers  :  "  and 
the  mare  will  break  your  neck." 

<;  I  can  ride  anything,"  Dave's  wife  answered  as  she 
sped  away.  "  It  was  taught  me  with  other  useless 
accomplishments." 

A  moment  later  she  shot  by  the  door,  and  down  the 
street  toward  the  village.  She  had  bridled  the  mare 
and  buckled  on  a  blanket  and  surcingle.  She  sat  like 
a  young  Indian  princess,  her  face  white,  her  eyes  large 
and  dark,  looking  straight  ahead,  and  urging  the  mare 
to  her  highest  speed.  Faster,  faster  she  went,  until 
the  woods  and  fields  seemed  flving  pictures  shooting 
through  the  air.  Half-way  to  the  village,  which  wns 
more  than  two  miles  distant,  she  met  Tom  Burgus,  the 
blacksmith.  She  reined  up  the  mare  so  suddenly  she 
almost  sat  her  down  on  her  haunches. 

"  Deacon  Somers  has  fallen  under  a  bowlder  in  his 


BY  ELLA   WtEELER  WILCOX.  523 

quarry,"  she  cried.  "  Go  to  him — quick  !  Dave  is 
away."  Then  she  rode  on, 

At  the  village  she  roused  half  a  dozen  men,  and  to 
the  strongest  and  most  muscular  she  said  :  "  Take  this 
mare  and  put  her  to  her  highest  speed.  Tom  Burgus 
is  already  there.  You  two  can  lift  the  bowlder,  per- 
haps. I  will  ride  with  Dr.  Evans." 

The  man  mounted  the  mare,  and  was  off  like  a  great 
bird  swooping  close  to  the  earth.  He  swept  away  and 
eut  of  sight. 

When  Dr.  Evans  reined  his  reeking  horse  at  the 
quarry,  Tom  Burgus  and  Jack  Smith,  who  had  ridden 
the  mare  from  the  village,  were  propping  up  the  bowlder 
with  iron  bars,  while  Mrs.  Sotners  and  her  help  were 
trying  to  remove  the  deacon's  inanimate  form.  The 
doctor  and  Dave's  wife  sprang  to  their  assistance.  In 
another  moment  he  was  free  from  his  perilous  position, 
and  Dr.  Evans  was  applying  restoratives.  "  He  will 
live,"  he  said;  "  but  in  five  minutes  more,  if  help  had 
not  come,  he  would  have  been  a  dead  man.  It  is  very 
fortifnate  you  had  a  swift  horse  in  the  stable,  and  a 
rider  who  could  keep  her  seat,"  and  he  glanced 
around  at  .Q^ve's  wife  just  in  time  to  see  her  fall  in  a 
iimp  heap. 

Deacon  Somers  was  quite  restored  to  his  usual 
health  the  following  morning.  "  Dave's  wife  and  the 
dappled  mare  saved  my  life,"  he  said  to  Deacon  Brad- 
law,  who  came  to  call.  "  So  the  boy  didn't  make  so 
poor  a  bargain  either  time,  neighbor,  as  I  once 
thought." 

The  deacon  recovered  rapidly,  and  just  as  rapidly 
Dave's  wife  lost  strength  and  color.  She  faded  before 
their  eyes  like  some  frail  plant,  and  at  last  one  day 
with  a  tired  sigh  she  drifted  out  into  the  Great  Un 
known  ;  and  with  her  went  the  bud  of  another  life, 
destined  never  to  blossom  on  earth. 

After  they  came  home  from  the  churchyard  where 
they  had  left  her  to  sleep,  Dave  found  the  dappled 
mare  cast  in  her  stall  ;  her  halter  strap  had  become 
a  noose  about  her  slender  throat.  She  was  quite 
dead. 

Over  the  low  mound  where  "  Dave's  wife  "  sleeps 
the  marble  mockery  of  a  tall  monument  smiles  in  irony 
at  those  who  pause  to  read  its  flattering  inscription, 


524  DAVE'S  WIFE. 

It  is  so  easy  to  praise  the  dead  !  And  the  memorial 
window  sacred  to  her  memory  in  Somerville  church — 
a  proposition  of  Deacon  Bradlaw's — uushes  in  crimson 
shame  while  suns  rise  and  set. 

And  a  sturdy  farm-horse  pulls  the  plough  through 
Dave's  stubble  field,  and  Sarah  Jane  drives  the  work  in 
his  kitchen. 


THE  DEACON'S  WEEK. 


BY 


ROSE  TERRY  COOKE. 


ROSE  TERRY  COOKE. 


PITTSFIELD,  in  Massachusetts,  has  always  considered 
itself  an  aristocratic  town,  cultured,  refined,  beyond 
the  usual  measure  of  even  New  England's  aspirations. 
It  must  be  happy  now,  since  to  its  other  attractions  it 
can  boast  of  the  permanent  presence  of  Mrs.  Rose 
Terry  Cooke,  who  with  her  husband,  Mr.  Rollin  S. 
Cooke,  took  up  her  residence  in  its  beautiful  elm- 
shaded  "  East  Street  "  more  than  a  year  ago.  Rose 
Terry  was  born  in  Connecticut,  in  the  suburbs  of  Hart- 
ford, in  a  farmhouse  of  the  better  sort,  built  on  a  farm 
owned  by  her  father ;  her  mother  belonged  to  one  of 
the  oldest  Wethersfield  families,  her  name  being  Anne 
Wright  Hurlbut.  This  lady  had  somewhat  old- 
fashioned  ideas  of  education,  teaching  her  little 
daughter  Rose  to  read  before  she  was  three  years 
old,  and  at  six  demanding  of  her  the  study  of  Walker's 
Dictionary,  columns  of  which  had  to  be  learned 
with  their  definitions,  and  compositions  written 
including  the  words  learned.  With  this  exacting 
mother  to  encourage,  or  perhaps  compel,  this  precocious 
child,  the  young  creature  was  set  to  keeping  a  diary 
from  the  age  of  six  to  ten — which  diary  has  been  pre- 
served to  the  present  day.  The  dictionary  saturating 
process  gleams  out  of  these  infantile  pages  in  such 
sentences  as  this:  "To-day  I  imbued  my  fingers  with 
the  blood  of  cherries  ! "  Her  father  having  lost  his 
property  in  the  Morus  Multicaulus  speculation,  moved 
into  Hartford,  and  when  Rose  was  about  ten  she 
was  sent  to  the  Hartford  Female  Seminary,  and 
there  her  literary  instinct  induced  her  to  beg  admis- 
sion to  a  class  considered  far  beyond  her  capacity, 
being  instruction  in  literature  and  composition  given 
by  the  principal,  Mr.  Brace,  to  well-grown  young  la- 
dies. She  gained  her  point,  which  was  no  doubt  a 
help  to  her  in  after  life. 

531 


532  ROSE  TERR  Y  COO  ICE. 

Rose  found  herself  at  sixteen  necessitated  to  dosome- 
thing  towards  her  own  support,  and  when  she  grad- 
uated from  the  seminary  became  a  teacher,  first  in  pri- 
vate schools,  then  in  the  family  of  a  friend. 

By  both  father  and  mother  she  had  been  brought  up 
in  the  severest  puritanical  habits  and  absolutely  re- 
stricted from  the  company  of  young  men  ;  but  that  did 
not  prevent  nature  from  having  its  course,  and  the 
feelings  of  youth,  thus  arbitrarily  suppressed  in  real 
life,  bubbled  up  spontaneously  and  overflowed  into 
printed  verse. 

Some  of  her  earliest  contributions  were  published  in 
Putnam's  Magazine,  and  the  Atlantic  Monthly,  then  in 
the  Galaxy,  published  in  Philadelphia,  and  in  Harper's. 
Stories  and  poems  have  followed  for  years  in  quick 
succession.  Mrs.  Cooke  has  been  particularly  happy 
in  her  delineations  of  rustic  New  England  life.  One  of 
these  tales,  entitled  "  Mrs.  Flint's  Married  Experience," 
setting  forth  the  "  closeness  "  of  the  average  farmer 
nature,  was  severely  criticised  as  overwrought ;  but  its 
correctness  was  proven  by  recourse  to  certain  records, 
— town  and  church  books,  which  exhibited  just  such  a 
state  of  facts  existing  in  the  life  history  of  certain  peo- 
ple in  the  town  of  Torringford,  Connecticut  Another 
very  popular  story  of  Mrs.  Cooke  is  "  The  Deacon's 
Week,"  republished  in  this  volume. 


THE  DEACON'S  WEEK. 


THE  communion  service  of  January  was  just  over  in 
the  church  at  Sugar  Hollow ;  and  people  were  waiting 
for  Mr.  Parkes  to  give  out  the  hymn  ;  but  he  did  not 
give  it  out, — he  laid  his  book  down  on  the  table,  and 
looked  about  on  his  church. 

He  was  a  man  of  simplicity  and  sincerity,  fully  in 
earnest  to  do  his  Lord's  work,  and  do  it  with  all  his 
might ;  but  he  did  sometimes  feel  discouraged.  His 
congregation  was  a  mixture  of  farmers  and  mechanics, 
for  Sugar  Hollow  was  cut  in  two  by  Sugar  Brook, — a 
brawling,  noisy  stream  that  turned  the  wheel  of  many 
a  mill  and  manufactory ;  yet  on  the  hills  around  it  there 
was  still  a  scattered  population,  eating  their  bread  in 
the  full  perception  of  the  primeval  curse.  So  he  had 
to  contend  with  the  keen  brain  and  sceptical  comment 
of  the  men  who  piqued  themselves  on  power  to  hammer 
at  theological  problems  as  well  as  hot  iron,  with  the 
jealousy  and  repulsion  and  bitter  feeling  that  has  bred 
the  communistic  hordes  abroad  and  at  home  ;  while 
perhaps  he  had  a  still  harder  task  to  awaken  the 
sluggish  souls  of  those  who  used  their  days  to  struggle 
with  barren  hill-side  and  rocky  pasture  for  mere  food 
and  clothing,  and  their  nights  to  sleep  the  dull  sleep  of 
physical  fatigue  and  mental  vacuity. 

It  seemed  sometimes  to  Mr.  Parkes  that  nothing  but 
the  trump  of  Gabriel  could  arouse  his  people  from  their 
sins  and  make  them  believe  on  the  Lord  and  follow  his 
footsteps.  To-day — no — a  long  time  before  to-day — 
he  had  mused  and  prayed  till  an  idea  took  shape  in  his 
thought,  and  now  he  was  to  put  it  in  practice  ;  yet  he 
felt  peculiarly  responsible  and  solemnized  as  he  looked 
about  him  and  foreboded  the  success  of  his  experiment. 
Then  there  flashed  across  him,  as  words  of  Scripture 
will  come  back  to  the  habitual  Bible-reader,  the  noble 
utterance  of  Gamaliel  concerning  Peter  and  his  brethren 
533 


534  THE  DEACON'S  WEEK. 

when  they  stood  before  the  council :  "  If  this  counsel 
or  this  work  be  of  men,  it  will  come  to  naught :  but  if 
it  be  of  God  ye  cannot  overthrow  it."  So  with  a  sense 
of  strength  the  minister  spoke. 

"  My  dear  friends,"  he  said,  "you  all  know,  though 
I  did  not  give  any  notice  to  that  effect,  that  this  week 
is  the  Week  of  Prayer.  I  have  a  mind  to  ask  you  to 
make  it  for  this  once  a  week  of  practice  instead.  I 
think  we  may  discover  some  things,  some  of  the  things 
of  God,  in  this  manner,  that  a  succession  of  prayer- 
meetings  would  not  perhaps  so  thoroughly  reveal  to  us. 
Now  when  I  say  this  I  don't  mean  to  have  you  go 
home  and  vaguely  endeavor  to  walk  straight  in  the  old 
way ;  I  want  you  to  take  '  topics,'  as  they  are  called, 
for  the  prayer-meetings.  For  instance,  Monday  is 
prayer  for  the  temperance  work.  Try  all  that  day  to  be 
temperate  in  speech,  in  act,  in  indulgence  of  any  kind 
that  is  hurtful  to  you.  The  next  day  is  for  Sunday- 
schools  ;  go  and  visit  your  scholars,  such  of  you  as  are 
teachers,  and  try  to  feel  that  they  have  living  souls  to 
save.  Wednesday  is  a  day  for  fellowship  meeting ;  we 
are  cordially  invited  to  attend  a  union-meeting  of  this 
sort  at  Bantam.  Few  of  us  can  go  twenty-five  miles 
to  be  with  our  brethren  there  ;  let  us  spend  that  day  in 
cultivating  our  brethren  here  ;  let  us  go  and  see  those 
who  have  been  cold  to  us  for  some  reason,  heal  up  our 
breaches  of  friendship,  confess  our  shortcomings  one 
to  another,  and  act  as  if,  in  our  Master's  words,  '  all 
ye  are  brethren.' 

"  Thursday  is  the  day  to  pray  for  the  family  rela- 
tion ;  let  us  each  try  to  be  to  our  families  on  that  day 
in  our  measure  what  the  Lord  is  to  his  family,  the 
church,  remembering  the  words,  '  Fathers,  provoke 
not  your  children  to  anger ; '  '  Husbands,  love  your 
wives,  and  be  not  bitter  against  them.'  These  are 
texts  rarely  commented  upon,  I  have  noticed,  in  our 
conference  meetings  ;  we  are  more  apt  to  speak  of 
the  obedience  due  from  children,  and  the  submission 
and  meekness  our  wives  owe  us,  forgetting  that  duties 
are  always  reciprocal. 

"  Friday,  the  church  is  to  be  prayed  for.  Let  us 
then,  each  for  himself,  try  to  act  that  day  just  as  we 
think  Christ,  our  great  Exemplar,  would  have  acted  in 
our  places.  Let  us  try  to  prove  to  ourselves  and  the 


BY  ROSE  TERRY COOKE.        .  535 

world  about  us  that  we  have  not  taken  upon  us  his 
name  lightly  or  in  vain.  Saturday  is  prayer-day  for 
the  heathen  and  foreign  missions.  Brethren,  you  know 
and  I  know  that  there  are  heathen  at  our  doors  here  ; 
let  every  one  of  you  who  will,  take  that  day  to  preach 
the  gospel  to  some  one  who  does  not  hear  it  anywhere 
else.  Perhaps  you  will  find  work  that  ye  knew  not  of 
lying  in  your  midst.  And  let  us  all,  on  Saturday 
evening,  meet  here  again,  and  choose  some  one  brother 
to  relate  his  experience  of  the  week.  You  who  are 
willing  to  try  this  method  please  to  rise." 

Everybody  rose  except  old  Amos  Tucker,  who  never 
stirred,  though  his  wife  pulled  at  him  and  whispered 
to  him  imploringly.  He  only  shook  his  grizzled  head 
and  sat  immovable. 

"  Let  us  sing  the  doxology,"  said  Mr.  Parkes ;  and 
it  was  sung  with  full  fervor.  The  new  idea  had  roused 
the  church  fully  ;  it  was  something  fixed  and  positive 
to  do ;  it  was  the  lever-point  Archimedes  longed  for, 
and  each  felt  ready  and  strong  to  move  a  world. 

Saturday  night  the  church  assembled  again.  The 
cheerful  eagerness  was  gone  from  their  faces ;  they 
looked  downcast,  troubled,  weary, — as  the  pastor  ex- 
pected. When  the  box  for  ballots  was  passed  about, 
each  one  tore  a  bit  of  paper  ftom  the  sheet  placed  m 
the  hymn-books  for  that  purpose,  and  wrote  on  it  a 
name.  The  pastor  said,  after  he  had  counted  them  : — 

ft  Deacon  Emmons,  the  lot  has  fallen  on  you." 

"  I'm  sorry  for't,"  said  the  deacon,  rising  up  and 
taking  off  his  overcoat.  "  I  haint  got  the  best  of 
records,  Mr.  Parkes,  now  I  tell  ye." 

"That  isn't  what  we  want,"  said  Mr.  Parkes.  "We 
want  to  know  the  whole  experience  of  some  one  among 
us,  and  we  know  you  will  not  tell  us  either  more  or  less 
than  what  you  did  experience." 

Deacon  Emmons  was  a  short,  thick-set  man,  with  a 
shrewd,  kindly  face  and  gray  hair,  who  kept  the  village 
store,  and  had  a  well-earned  reputation  for  honesty. 

"Well,  brethren,"  he  said,  "  I  dono  why  I  shouldn't 
tell  it.  I  am  pretty  well  ashamed  of  myself,  no  doubt, 
but  I  ought  to  be,  and  maybe  I  shall  profit  by  what 
I've  found  out  these  six  days  back.  I'll  tell  you  just 
as  it  come.  Monday,  I  looked  about  me  to  begin  with. 
I  am  amazin'  fond  of  coffee,  and  it  ain't  good  for  me 


536  THE  DEACON'S  WEEK. 

— the  doctor  says  it  ain't ;  but,  dear  me,  it  does  set  a 
man  up  good,  cold  mornings,  to  have  a  cup  of  hot, 
sweet,  tasty  drink,  and  I  haven't  had  the  grit  to 
refuse.  I  knew  it  made  me  what  folks  call  nervous,  and 
I  call  cross,  before  night  comes ;  and  I  knew  it  fetched 
on  spells  of  low  spirits,  when  our  folks  couldn't  get  a 
word  out  of  me, — not  a  good  one,  any  way ;  so  I 
thought  I'd  try  on  that  to  begin  with.  I  tell  you  it 
come  hard  !  I  hankered  after  that  drink  of  coffee 
dreadful !  Seemed  as  though  I  couldn't  eat  my  break- 
fast without  it.  I  feel  to  pity  a  man  that  loves  liquor 
more'n  I  ever  did  in  my  life  before ;  but  I  feel  sure 
they  can  stop  if  they  try,  for  I've  stopped,  and  I'm 
a-goin'  to  stay  stopped. 

"  Well,  come  to  dinner,  there  was  another  fight.  I 
do  set  by  pie  the  most  of  anything ;  I  was  fetched  up 
on  pie,  as  you  may  say.  Our  folks  always  had  it 
three  times  a  day,  and  the  doctor,  he's  been  talkin'  and 
talkin'  to  me  about  eatin'  pie.  I  have  the  dyspepsy 
like  everything,  and  it  makes  me  useless  by  spells,  and 
onreliable  as  a  weathercock.  An'  Doctor  Drake  he 
says^there  won't  nothin'  help  me  but  to  diet.  I  was 
readln'  the  Bible  that  morning,  while  I  sat  waiting  for 
breakfast,  for  'twas  Monday,  and  wife  was  kind  of  set 
back  with  washin'  and  all,  and  I  come  acrost  that  part 
where  it  says  that  the  bodies  of  Christians  are  temples 
of  the  Holy  Ghost,  Well,  thinks  I,  we'd  ought  to 
take  care  of  'em  if  they  be,  and  see  that  they're  kep? 
clean  nor  pleasant,  like  the  church  ;  and  nobody  can 
be  clean  and  pleasant  that  has  dyspepsy.  But,  come 
to  pie,  I  felt  as  though  I  couldn't !  and,  lo  ye,  I  didn't ! 
I  eet  a  piece  right  against  my  conscience ;  facin'  what 
I  knew  I  ought  to  do,  I  went  and  done  what  I  ought 
not  to.  I  tell  ye  my  conscience  made  music  of  me 
consider'ble,  and  I  said  then  I  wouldn't  never  sneer  at 
a  drinkin'  man  no  more  when  he  slipped  up.  I'd  feel 
for  him  and  help  him,  for  I  see  just  how  it  was.  So 
that  day's  practice  giv'  out,  but  it  learnt  me  a  good 
deal  more'n  I  knew  before. 

"  I  started  out  next  day  to  look  up  my  Bible-class. 
They  haven't  really  tended  up  to  Sunday-school  as  they 
ought  to,  along  back  ;  but  I  was  busy,  here  and  there, 
and  there  didn't  seem  to  be  a  real  chance  to  get  to  it. 
Well,  'twould  take  the  evenin'  to  tell  it  all;  but  I  found 


B Y  ROSE  TERR Y  COOKE.  $tf 

one  real  sick,  been  abed  for  three  weeks,  and  was  so 
glad  to  see  me  that  I  felt  fair  ashamed.  Seemed  as 
though  I  heerd  the  Lord  for  the  first  time  sayin',  '  In- 
asmuch as  ye  did  it  not  to  one  of  the  least  of  these,  ye 
did  it  not  to  me.'  Then  another  man's  old  mother  says 
to  me  before  he  come  in  from  the  shed,  says  she,  '  He's 
been  a-sayin'  that  if  folks  practised  what  they  preached 
you'd  ha'  come  round  to  look  him  up  afore  now,  but  he 
reckoned  you  kinder  looked  down  on  mill-hands.  I'm 
awful  glad  you  come.'  Brethring,  so  was  1 !  I  tell  you 
that  day's  work  done  me  good.  I  got  a  poor  opinion 
of  Josiah  Emmons,  now  I  tell  ye  ;  but  I  learned  more 
about  the  Lord's  wisdom  than  a  month  o'Sundays  ever 
showed  me." 

A  smile  he  could  not  repress  passed  over  Mr.  Parkes' 
earnest  face.  The  deacon  had  forgotten  all  external 
issues  in  coming  so  close  to  the  heart  of  things  ;  but 
the  smile  passed  as  he  said  : — 

"  Brother  Emmons,  do  you  remember  what  the 
Master  said, — '  If  any  man  will  do  His  will,  he  shall 
know  of  the  doctrine,  whether  it  be  of  God,  or  whether 
I  speak  of  myself  '  ?'' 

"  Well,  it's  so,"  answered  the  deacon,  "  it's  so  right 
along.  Why,  I  never  thought  so  much  of  my  Bible- 
class,  nor  took  no  sech  int'rest  in  'em  as  I  do  to-day, — • 
not  since  I  begun  to  teach.  I  b'lieve  they'll  come 
more  reg'lar  now,  too." 

"  Now  come  fellowship  day.  I  thought  that  would 
be  all  plain  sailin' ;  seemed  as  though  I'd  got  warmed 
up  till  I  felt  pleasant  towardst  everybody;  so  I  went 
around  seein'  folks  that  was  neighbors,  and  'twas  easy; 
but  when  I  come  home  at  noon  spell,  Philury  says,  says 
she,  '  Square  Tucker's  black  bull  is  into  th'  orchard 
a-tearin'  round,  and  he's  knocked  two  lengths  o'fence 
down  flat ! '  Well,  the  old  Adam  riz  up  then,  you'd 
better  b'lieve.  That  black  bull  has  been  a-breakin' 
into  my  lots  ever  sence  we  got  in  th'  aftermath,  and  it's 
Square  Tucker's  fence,  and  he  won't  make  it  bull- 
strong,  as  he'd  oughter,  and  that  orchard  was  a  young 
one  jest  comin'  to  bear,  and  all  the  new  wood  crisp  as 
cracklin's  with  frost.  You'd  better  b'lieve  I  didn't 
have  much  feller-feelin'  with  Amos  Tucker.  I  jest  put 
over  to  his  house  and  spoke  up  pretty  free  to  him, 
when  he  looked  up  and  says,  says  he,  'Fellowship- 


538  THE  DEACON'S  WEEK. 

meetin'  day,  ain't  it,  deacon  ? "  I'd  ruther  he'd  ha' 
slapped  my  face.  I  felt  as  though  I  should  like  to  slip 
behind  the  door.  I  see  pretty  distinct  what  sort  of 
life  I'd  been  livin'  all  the  years  I'd  been  a  professor, 
when  I  couldn't  hold  on  to  my  tongue  and  temper  one 
day  ! " 

"  Breth-e-ren,"  interrupted  a  slow  harsh  voice, 
somewhat  broken  with  emotion,  "  /'//  tell  the  rest  on't. 
[osiah  Eminons  come  around  like  a  man  an'  a  Chris- 
tian right  there.  He  asked  me  for  to  forgive  him,  and 
not  to  think  'twas  the  fault  of  his  religion,  because  'twas 
hisn  and  nothin'  else.  I  think  more  of  him  to-day  than 
I  ever  done  before.  I  was  one  that  wouldn't  say  I'd 
practise  with  the  rest  of  ye.  I  thought  'twas  ever- 
lastin'  nonsense.  I'd  ruther  go  to  forty-nine  prayer- 
meetin's  than  work  atbein'  good  a  week.  I  believe  my 
hope  has  been  one  of  them  that  perish  ;  it  hain't  worked, 
and  I  leave  it  behind  to-day.  I  mean  to  begin  honest, 
and  it  was  seein'  one  honest  Christian  man  fetched  me 
round  to't." 

Amos  Tucker  sat  down  and  buried  his  grizzled  head 
in  his  rough  hands. 

"  Bless  the  Lord  !  "  said  the  quavering  tones  of  a 
still  older  man  from  a  far  corner  of  the  house,  and 
many  a  glistening  eye  gave  silent  response. 

"  Go  on,  Brother  Emmons,"  said  the  minister. 

"  Well,  when  next  day  come,  I  got  up  to  make  the 
fire,  and  my  boy  Joe  had  forgot  the  kindlin's.  I'd 
opened  my  mouth  to  give  him  Jesse,  when  it  come 
over  me  sudden  that  this  was  the  day  of  prayer  for  the 
family  relation.  I  thought  I  wouldn't  say  nothin'.  I 
jest  fetched  in  the  kindlin's  myself,  and  when  the  fire 
burnt  up  good  I  called  wife. 

"  '  Dear  me  ! '  says  she,  *  I've  got  such  a  headache, 
'Siah,  but  I'll  come  in  a  minnit.'  I  didn't  mind  that, 
for  women  are  always  havin'  aches,  and  I  was  jest 
a-going  to  say  so,  when  I  remembered  the  texWabout 
not  bein'  bitter  against  'em,  so  I  says,  '  Philury,  you 
lay  abed.  I  expect  Emmy  and  me  can  get  the  vittles 
to-day.'  I  declare,  she  turned  over  and  give  me  sech 
a  look  ;  why,  it  struck  right  in  !  There  was  my  wife, 
that  had  worked  for  an'  waited  on  me  twenty-odd  year 
'most  scart  because  I  spoke  kind  of  feelin'  to  her.  I 
went  out  and  fetched  in  the  pail  o'  water  she'd  always 


BY  ROSE  TERRY  COOKE.  539 

d rawed  herself,  and  then  I  milked  the  cow.  When  I 
come  in  Philury  was  up  fryin'  the  potatoes,  and  the 
tears  a-shinin'  on  her  white  face.  She  didn't  say 
nothin',  she's  kinder  still ;  but  she  hadn't  no  need  to. 
I  felt  a  leetle  meaner'n  I  did  the  day  before.  But 
'twant  nothin'  to  my  condition  when  I  was  goin', 
towards  night,  down  the  suller  stairs  for  some  apples, 
so's  the  children  could  have  a  roast,  and  I  heerd  Joe, 
up  in  the  kitchen,  say  to  Emmy,  '  I  do  b'lieve,  Em,  pa's 
goin'  to  die.' — '  Why,  Josiar  Emmpns,  how  you  talk  ! ' 
— '  Well,  I  do ;  he's  so  everlastin  pleasant  an'  good- 
natered  I  can't  but  think  he's  struck  with  death.' 

"  I  tell  ye,  brethren,  I  set  right  down  on  them  sullar 
stairs  and  cried.  I  did,  reely.  Seemed  as  though  the 
Lord  had  turned  and  looked  at  me  jest  as  he  did  at 
Peter.  Why,  there  was  my  own  children  never  see  me 
act  real  fatherly  and  pretty  in  all  their  lives.  I'd 
growled  and  scolded  and  prayed  at  'em,  and  tried  to 
fetch  'em  up, — jest  as  the  twig  is  bent  the  tree's  in- 
clined, ye  know, — but  I  hadn't  never  thought  that 
they'd  got  right  and  reason  to  expect  I'd  do  my  part 
as  well  as  they  theirn.  Seemed  as  though  I  was 
findin'  out  more  about  Josiah  Emmons's  shortcomin's 
than  was  real  agreeable. 

"Come  around  Friday  I  got  back  to  the  store.  I'd 
kind  o'  left  it  to  the  boys  the  early  part  of  the  week,  and 
things  was  a  little  cuterin'  but  I  did  have  sense  not  to 
tear  round  and  use  sharp  words  so  much  as  common. 
I  began  to  think  'twas  gettin'  easy  to  practice  after 
five  days,  when  in  come  Judge  Herrick's  wife  after 
some  curt'in  calico.  I  had  a  handsome  piece,  all  done 
off  with  roses  and  things,  but  there  was  a  fault  in  the 
weavin', — every  now  and  then  a  thin  streak.  She 
didn't  notice  it,  but  she  was  pleased  with  the  figures 
on't,  and  said  she'd  take  the  whole  piece.  Well,  just 
as  I  was  wrappin'  of  it  up,  what  Mr.  Parkes  here  said 
about  tryin'  to  act  jest  as  the  Lord  would  in  our  place 
come  acrost  me.  Why,  I  turned  as  red  as  a  beet,  I 
know  I  did.  If  made  me  all  of  a  tremble.  There 
was  I,  a  doorkeeper  in  the  tents  of  my  God,  as  David 
says,  really  cheatin'  and  cheatin'  a  woman.  I  tell  ye, 
brethren,  I  was  all  of  a  sweat.  '  Mis'  Herrick,'  says  I, 
'  I  don't  b'lieve  you've  looked  real  close  at  this  goods  ; 
'taint  thorough  wove,'  says  I.  So  she  didn't  take  it; 


540  THE  DEACONS  WEEK. 

but  what  fetched  me  was  to  think  how  many  times  I'd 
done  such  mean,  onreliable  little  things  to  turn  a 
penny,  and  all  the  time  savin'  and  prayin'  that  I 
wanted  to  be  like  Christ.  I  kep'  a-trippin'  of  myself 
up  all  day  jest  in  the  ordinary  business,  and  I  was  a 
peg  lower  down  when  night  come  than  I  was  a  Thurs- 
day. I'd  ruther,  as  far  as  the  hard  work  is  concerned, 
lay  a  mile  of  four-foot  stone  wall  than  undertake  to  do 
a  man's  livin'  Christian  duty  for  twelve  workin'  hours ; 
and  the  heft  of  that  is,  it's  because  I  ain't  used  to  it, 
and  I  ought  to  be. 

"So  this  momin'  come  around,  and  I  felt  a  mite 
more  cherlc.  Twas  missionary  mornin',  and  seemed 
as  if  'twas  a  sight  easier  to  preach  than  to  practise.  I 
thought  I'd  begin  to  old  Mis'  Vedder's.  So  I  put  a 
Testament  in  my  pocket  and  knocked  to  her  door. 
Says  I,  *  Good-mornin',  ma-am',  and  then  I  stopped. 
Words  seemed  to  hang,  somehow.  I  didn't  want  to 
pop  right  out  that  I'd  come  over  to  try'n  convert  her 
folks.  I  hemmed  and  swallered  a  little,  and  fin'lly  I 
said,  says  I,  *  We  don't  see  you  to  meetin'  very  frequent, 
Mis'  Vedder.' 

**  *  No,  you  don't ! '  ses  she,  as  quick  as  a  wink.  '  I 
stay  to  home  and  mind  my  business.' 

"  *  Well,  we  should  like  to  have  you  come  along  with 
us  and  do  ye  good,'  says  I  sort  of  conciliatin'. 

Look  a  here,  deacon  ! '  she  snapped ;  '  I've  lived 


drinks  and  swears,  and  Malviny  dono  her  letters.  She 
knows  a  heap  she  hadn't  ought  to,  besides.  Now  what 
are  you  a-comin'  here  to-day  for,  I'd  like  to  know,  and 
talkin'  so  glib  about  meetin'  ?  Go  to  meetin' !  I'll  go 
or  come  jest  as  I  darn  please,  for  all  you.  Now  get 
out  o'  this  ! '  Why,  she  come  at  me  with  a  broomstick. 
There  wasn't  no  need  on't ;  what  she  said  was  enough. 
I  hadn't  never  asked  her  nor  hern  to  so  much  as  think 
of  goodness  before.  Then  I  went  to  another  place 
jest  like  that, — -I  won't  call  no  more  names, — and  sure 
enough  there  was  ten  children  in  rags,  the  hull  of  'em, 
and  the  man  half-drunk.  He  giv'  it  to  me,  too ;  and 
I  don't  wonder,  I'd  never  lifted  a  hand  to  serve  nor 
save  'em  before  in  all  these  years,  I'd  §aid  consider* 


BY  ROSE  TERRY  COOKE.  54! 


*ble  about  the  heathen  in  foreign  parts,  and  give 
little  for  to  convert  'em,  and  I  had  looked  right  over 
the  beads  of  them  that  was  next  door.  Seemed  as  if  I 
could  hear  Him  say,  '  These  ought  ye  to  have  done, 
and  not  have  left  the  other  undone.'  I  couldn't  face 
another  soul  to-day,  brethren.  I  come  home,  and 
here  I  be.  I've  been  searched  through  and  through 
and  found  wantin*.  God  be  merciful  to  me  a  sinner !  " 

He  dropped  into  his  seat,  and  bowed  his  head ;  and 
many  another  bent,  also.  It  was  plain  that  the  dea- 
con's experience  was  not  the  only  one  among  the 
brethren.  Mr.  Payson  rose,  and  prayed  as  he  had 
never  prayed  before ;  the  week  of  practise  had  fired 
his  heart,  too.  And  it  began  a  memorable  year  for  the 
church  in  Sugar  Hollow ;  not  a  year  of  excitement  or 
enthusiasm,  but  one  when  they  heard  their  Lord  say- 
ing, as  to  Israel  of  old,  "Go  forward;"  and  they 
obeyed  his  voice.  The  Sunday-school  flourished,  the 
church  services  were  fully  attended,  every  good  thing 
was  helped  on  its  way,  and  peace  reigned  in  their 
homes  and  hearts ;  imperfect,  perhaps,  as  new  growths 
are,  but  still  an  offshoot  of  the  peace  past  understand- 
ing. 

And  another  year  they  will  keep  another  week  of 
practise,  by  common  consent. 


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